THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  CITY,  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


By  the  same  writer  — 

THE  SIGN  OF  THE  HARP 

OCTAVES   IN  AN  OXFORD   GARDEN 
Lettered  and  illuminated  by  MARGARETHK  HBISSBR 

WESTWIND  SONGS 


For  the  privilege  of  republication  in  this  volume 
acknowledgment  is  due  Mr.  Edmund  D.  Brooks, 
owner  of  the  copyrights  for  "  Octaves  in  an  Oxford 
Garden  "  and  several  of  the  sonnets. 


THE    CITY 

A  Poem-Drama 
AND    OTHER    POEMS 

BY 

ARTHUR    UPSON 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

LONDON:    MACMILLAN    &    CO.,   LTD. 
1905 

All  r]gbti  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  1905, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1905. 


XartoooD  i3rrsB 

J.  8.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  CITY vii 

I.    Dawn i 

II.     Morning n 

III.  Afternoon 40 

IV.  Evening 67 

OCTAVES  IN  AN  OXFORD  GARDEN 85 

Wadham 87 

Nature's  Calmness       .......  91 

Lost  Inheritance          .......  92 

Vicissitude .........  93 

Old  Song  and  a  River          ......  93 

The  Same  Sky     ........  94 

Constancy   .........  95 

Ford  Madox  Brown's  "Christ  washing   the   Feet   of 

Peter" 95 

The  Absence 96 

St.  Paul's 97 

Dust  of  Eden 98 

Restoration          ........  98 

Roman  Glassware  preserved  in  the  Ashmolean    .         .  99 

Life's  Usurpation -99 

Traces .  100 

The  One  Flower 100 

Separation 102 


Contents 

vi 

PAGE 

SONNETS 105 

Life's  Tavern 107 

Sultan's  Bread 108 

Failures       .........     109 

"  And  women  must  weep ".         .         .        .         .         .no 

Golden  Rod HI 

October       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .112 

With  a  Copy  of  the  Mona  Lisa    .         .         .         .         -113 

The  Rezzonico  Palace         .         .         .         .         .         .114 

"ExLibris" 115 

Mothers  and  Sisters    .         .         .         .         .         .         .116 

After  reading  "  The  Golden  Treasury  "  in  Green  Park     1 1 7 

To  George  Crabbe 118 

Thought  of  Stevenson 119 

Bonington  (1801-1828) 120 

Benjamin-Constant's  Portrait  of  Queen  Victoria  .         .121 

Orpah 122 

A  Motive  out  of  Lohengrin          .         .         .         .         .123 

The  Mystery  of  Beauty 124 

Consummation    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .126 

Washington's  Birthday 127 

Arlington    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .128 

The  Sequoia,  "  William  McKinley  "     .         .         .         .129 

Wheat  Elevators         .         .         .         .         .         .         .130 

The  Coal  Breaker 131 

The  Statue  of  Liberty 132 

NOTE 133 


THE  CITY 


"FOR  HE  LOOKED  FOR  A  CITY  WHICH 
HATH  FOUNDATIONS,  WHOSE  BUILDER 
AND  MAKER  IS  GOD" 


UCHOMO,  surnamed  Abgar,  King  of  Edessa  in  Mesopotamia. 

CLEONIS,  an  Athenian  woman,  his  Queen. 

ANANIAS,  a  Chamberlain. 

AGAMEDE. 

STILBE. 

A  PHYSICIAN. 

BELARION. 

BODY  SLAVE  to  Abgar. 

A  MESSENGER. 

SLAVE-BOY. 

WOMEN,  companions  and  attendants  of  the  Queen. 

SOLDIERS. 

The  scene  throughout  is  an  enclosed  garden  of  planes  and  pome- 
granates some  distance  outside  Edessa.  The  river  Daisun,  with 
occasional  sails,  and  a  winding  military  road,  are  seen  at  intervals 
in  the  rolling  fields  beyond  the  garden  walls.  Against  the  horizon 
in  the  left  background  arise  the  walls  and  towers  of  a  Greco- 
Parthian  city.  In  the  middle  background  there  is  a  massive  gate, 
closed  and  barred;  its  hinge  posts  are  termini  carven  with  Janus 
heads.  In  the  right  foreground  the  portico  of  a  summer  palace  in 
the  Doric  style  projects  into  the  scene  through  a  wealth  of  oleanders. 
The  centre  is  occupied  by  a  marble  dais  surmounted  by  a  long  semi- 
circular Greek  settle  of  stone,  and  banked  with  luxuriant  flowers. 
Near  this,  a  sun-dial. 

The  time  is  in  the  sixteenth  year  of  the  reign  of  the  fioman 
Emperor  Tiberius,  late  in  the  spring. 

The  action  covers  a  period  of  one  day  from  dawn  to  dark. 


Dawn 

i 

I.   DAWN 

A  group  of  the  Queen's  women  attired  in  flowing 
white  pepli,  one  bearing  a  lyre,  some  sitting,  some  lean- 
ing against  pillars  of  the  portico.  Soft  music.  They 
sing  to  a  slow  measure. 

CHORUS 

OF  old  it  went  forth  to  Euchenor,  pronounced  of  his 

sire  — 

Reluctant,  impelled  by  the  god's  unescapable  fire  — 
To  choose  for  his  doom  or  to  perish  at  home  of  disease 
Or  be  slain  of  his  foes,  among  men,  where  Troy  surges 

down  to  the  seas. 

Polyides,  the  soothsayer,  spake  it,  inflamed  by  the  god. 
Of  his  son  whom  the  fates  singled  out  did  he  bruit  it 

abroad ; 
And  Euchenor  went  down  to  the  ships  with  his  armour 

and  men 
And  straightway,  grown  dim  on  the  gulf,  passed  the 

isles  he  passed  never  again. 


The  City 

2 

Why  weep  ye,  O  women  of  Corinth?    The  doom  ye 

have  heard 
Is  it  strange  to  your  ears  that  ye  make  it  so  mournful  a 

word? 
Is   he  who  so   fair   in   your   eyes   to   his   manhood 

upgrew 
Alone  in  his  doom  of  pale  death  —  are  of  mortals  the 

beaten  so  few? 

O  weep  not,  companions  and  lovers !    Turn  back  to 

your  joys : 
The  defeat  was  not  his  which  he  chose,  nor  the  victory 

Troy's. 
Him  a  conqueror,  beauteous  in  youth,  o'er  the  flood  his 

fleet  brought, 
And  the  swift  spear  of  Paris  that  slew  completed  the 

conquest  he  sought. 

Not  the  falling  proclaims  the  defeat,  but  the  place  of 

the  faU; 
And  the  fate  that  decrees  and  the  god  that  impels 

through  it  all 


Dawn 
3 

Regard  not  blind  mortals'  divisions  of  slayer  and  slain, 
But  invisible  glories  dispense  wide  over  the  war-gleam- 
ing plain.  [Enter  AGAMEDE  in  the  portico. 

AGAMEDE 

Go,  gentle  sisters,  and  sweet  rest  be  yours. 
Ere  noon  comes  hither  Abgar's  embassy 
From  the  great  Healer  in  Jerusalem. 
Get  what  repose  ye  may,  for  Ananias 
Hath  sent  his  courier  to  our  waiting  Queen 
Begging  some  converse  here  with  her,  and  we 
Doubtless  shall  then  be  needed. 

STILBE  (stepping  from  amongst  the  women) 
Abgar  sleeps? 
AGAMEDE 

Like  a  tired  boy.     Cleonis  also  rests, 

And  the  old  doctor  in  his  ante-room. 

The  Queen  commands  me  thank  her  faithful  ones 

Who  all  night  long  this  slumber  have  implored 

For  Abgar's  couch  with  lulling  of  their  song. 


The  City 

4 

STILBE 

Is  this  the  morning?    I  began  to  think 

That,  like  Persephone,  we,  too,  perchance 

Might  have  transgressed  in  this  half-yearlong  night, 

Green  pomegranates  being  irresistible 

And  the  only  cheer  the  dark  earth  offered  us. 

Pluto  provided  ripe  ones  for  his  guest. 

AGAMEDE 

Yonder  the  city's  waking.     Eunoe, 

Straight  to  thy  bed.     Dear  child,  thy  blossom  head 

Hangs  heavy  as  the  dewiest  poppy !    Thou, 

Erigone,  whose  lyre  hath  brought  the  morn, 

And  little  Nyseis  of  the  silver  voice, 

Speed  now  while  slumber  broods  above  these  halls 

And  even  Abgar  sleeps. 

Thee,  Stilbe,  yet 

Would  I  detain  a  space.    Some  things  there  are 
Befitting  us  alone  as  nearest  her 
And  tenderest  in  her  love  to  weigh  together 
Of  our  Cleonis.  [Exeunt  Women,  except  STILBE. 


Dawn 
5 

STILBE  (coldly} 

You,  being  cousin  to  her, 
Have  preference  in  her  intimacy.     Much, 
Therefore,  I'm  honoured  by  your  interview. 
Pray,  madam,  first,  whose  song  was  that  we  sang 
The  last  ere  you  dismissed  us? 

AGAMEDE 

Abgar's  song ; 
Thou  knowest  he  made  it  in  the  garden  here. 

STILBE 
I  had  forgot  Cleonis  sings  but  love. 

AGAMEDE 
Yea,  and  a  love  the  dream  of  which  men  die  for ! 

STILBE 

And  the  life  of  which,  I  see,  they  sicken  of. 
The  fighter  for  me,  and  songs  of  sounding  war ! 

[A  pause. 


The  City 

6 

AGAMEDE 

Glaucon,  my  husband,  died  to  save  his  king; 

Yonder,  amid  the  blossoms,  lies  entombed 

Our  little  child,  our  little  Charmides. 

O  gods !  take  not  away  my  joy  in  her, 

This  fair-faced  creature  I  had  learnt  to  love ! 

Stilbe,  thou  hast  seemed  like  a  fresher  self 

To  me  a  widow  and  bereft  of  youth 

In  whom  so  many  hopes  have  been  consumed. 

My  little  sister  left  in  Argolis 

Must  now  be  tall  as  thou,  a  woman  grown. 

[Confronting  her.] 

Tell  me,  loved  Stilbe,  what  hath  stung  thy  heart 
That,  since  our  summons,  thy  sweet  lips  so  oft 
Speak  bitterly? 

STILBE 

Stale  sweetness  oft  turns  bitter. 

AGAMEDE 

Thou  art  so  fair !    Yet  many  a  winge*d  thrust 
At  our  sad,  gentle  Queen  I  hear  of  thee. 


Dawn 

7 

Oh,  hadst  thou  earlier  from  Edessa  come 

To  stand  beside  her  through  this  lingering  grief 

Thou,  too,  wouldst  curb  the  quick  scorn  of  the  world ! 

STILBE 

Thrice  o'er  these  marbled  pools  the  moon  hath  filled 

Since  Uchomo  she  lured  to  dwell  off  here 

While  Ananias  trudges  to  Judaea 

For  Galilean  charms.     The  very  pause 

She  claps  upon  our  city  gaiety 

Cries  out  against  her.     With  the  king  fled  hither 

The  town  is  like  a  tomb  dead-garlanded. 

I,  who  this  selfsame  week  was  to  have  wed, 

Am  like  to  die  a  virgin,  being  called  — 

The  maidens  decked,  as  one  might  almost  say, 

And  the  libation  poised  above  the  altar  — 

Called  with  new  relays  to  attend  her  spouse 

And  sing  these  dull  songs  to  him  evermore. 

Belarion,  too,  our  nuptial  rites  delayed, 

Grows  angry  in  his  speech. 


The  City 

AGAMEDE 

Then  thou  hast  speech 

With  him?    Tis  of  Belarion  I  would  warn  thee 
As  one  who  hates  the  Queen  and  would  rejoice 
To  see  the  end  of  this  long  dynasty. 
How  gains  he  access  to  thee,  and  for  what? 

STILBE 

He  is  a  man  of  promise.    Heard  you  not 
What  the  oracle  declared? 

AGAMEDE  (after  a  pause) 

Who  is  this  woman? 

Not  she  who  suckled  at  the  same  fond  breast, 
Sicilian  Praxinoe's,  with  her 
She  rails  on  now  —  bred  up  in  watchful  care 
Her  foster-sister  in  Athenian  halls ! 

STILBE 

Milk  is  not  blood;   and  even  blood  will  chill 
Before  a  thwarted  love  —  such  love  as  mine ! 


Dawn 
9 

AGAMEDE 

Such  love  as  thine?    Why,  girl,  thou'rt  mad!    Dost 

dream 
That  ever  love  hath  sprung  from  such  a  soul  ? 

[STILBE  laughs  scornfully. 

Ah !    The  old  tale  —  that  thou  wast  courted  first 
When  Uchomo  to  Athens  came.    Why,  that 
Belongs  among  the  old  forgotten  things. 

STILBE  (starting  away) 

Oh,  some  remember  still.    Yea,  even  yet 

This  royal  pair  among  the  oleanders 

Shall  well  remember !  [AGAMEDE  follows  her. 

Do  not  follow  me. 

I,  too,  have  biddings.    Follow  not,  I  say ! 
I'll  cry  and  start  Edessa's  dreamer  up 
Where  he  lies  dozing  in  her  arms !    I'll  shriek ! 

AGAMEDE  (in  a  low  voice  as  they  move  into  the 
trees) 

Poor,  blighted  flower!    What  thou  revealest  me 


The  City 

10 

Confirms  injurious  whispers  round  thy  name 
Of  poisonous  growths  about  thee,  poisoning  thee. 
I  will  know  all.    I  will  not  leave  thy  side 
Till  the  last  shred  thou  dost  confess  to  me. 

[Exeunt  among  the  trees. 


Morning 
ii 


II.  MORNING 

Four  hours  later. 

The  PHYSICIAN  is  discovered  near  the  sun-dial,  ner- 
vously pacing  a  short  distance  to  and  fro. 

Enter  ANANIAS  with  attendants,  from  the  gate  which  is 
swung  open  for  him  by  guards. 

PHYSICIAN  (starting  towards  him) 
At  last!    Thrice  welcome  home,  Lord  Ananias! 

ANANIAS 

I  greet  thee.    Pray,  call  not  Cleonis  yet; 

My  courier  told  me  of  her  weariness. 

Sit  here.  How  hath  the  King  done  in  mine  absence? 
[He  hands  the  PHYSICIAN  to  a  place  on  the 
settle  and  remains  standing.  During  the 
following  he  paces  slowly  and  firmly  to  and 
fro  before  the  dais,  pausing  occasionally 
with  military  abruptness. 


The  City 

12 

PHYSICIAN 

I  scarce  had  hoped  myself  to  have  the  honour 
Of  your  advices.    The  Asklepiad 
Came  not  along? 

ANANIAS 

How  doth  my  lord  the  King? 
He  hath  not  rashly  left  this  healing  place? 
Be  brief.    How  is  his  fever,  sir? 

PHYSICIAN 

My  lord,  • 

Last  night  I  deemed  his  fever  slower,  stole 
Forth  for  an  hour  to  offer  up  to  Paion 
Such  rites  as  the  old,  pious  world  pronounced 
For  his  disease,  and  left  him  soothed  in  sleep  — 
Or  so  he  seemed  —  the  Attic  women  singing 
Hygeia's  hymn,  with  paeans  to  the  god; 
And  she,  Cleonis,  by  his  couch.  —  Ah,  sir, 
She  hath  not  left  his  side  this  many  a  week, 
But  they  together  wander  all  the  day 


Morning 
13 

About  these  gardens  or  within  the  palace; 
And  nights  she  lays  her  down  beside  his  bed 
Upon  her  ready  pallet,  not  content 
To  let  sweet  slumber  steal  her  cares  away 
Till  first  she  see  him  peaceful.    Like  a  child 
Is  she  for  the  mild  beauty  of  her  love. 

ANANIAS 
I  ask  for  news.    Pray,  sir,  how  is  the  King? 

PHYSICIAN 

I  left  him  with  a  sleeper's  pulse,  moist- lipped ; 
The  low  lamp  softly  shining,  at  his  head 
His  faithful  Karamanian,  on  his  breast 
The  Queen's  light  hand  that  gently  rose  and  fell 
With  his  deep  breaths,  and  all  the  medicines 
Of  my  prognosis  ranged  conveniently ;  — 
For,  though  I  follow  Erasistratos, 
That  learned  doctor  at  Seleukos'  court, 
Our  art's  chief  glory,  in  him  I  love  less 


The  City 

14 

What  Hippokrates  and  the  school  of  Kos 
Instilled,  and  rather  take  his  slant  to  Knidos: 
Each  humour  of  the  four  three  changes  hath, 
And  each  degree  of  change  hath  its  own  drugs. 

ANANIAS 

Great  Zeus !    I  had  not  guessed  that  so  profound 
My  question  was ! 

PHYSICIAN 

In  due  course,  Chamberlain. 
I,  anxious,  on  returning  through  the  halls 
Hearing  clear  voices  from  the  royal  chamber, 
Sped  thither.  —  One  brief  hour  away,  so  long 
As  might  suffice  to  lay  fresh  myrrh  and  vervain, 
From  Epidaurus  which  Cleonis  hath 
For  healing  rituals,  on  Apollo's  shrine.  — 
Found  him,  despite  all  previous  reproofs, 
Risen  from  rest  and  pacing  round  his  floor 
Dressed  as  for  journeys,  girded  with  his  blade. 
The  Queen,  who  calmlier  looked,  sat  meekly  by, 


Morning 
15 

And  I  did  overhear  much  feverish  talk 

Of  dreams  and  sloth,  and  work  and  war;  and,  last, 

I  made  it  clear  he  sudden  had  resolved 

No  longer  here  within  this  wholesome  house 

To  tarry,  but  so  soon  as  you,  my  lord, 

Your  grateful  presence  should  again  bestow 

Upon  this  troubled  realm,  he  would  return 

With  all  the  court  unto  Edessa. 

ANANIAS 

Well, 

What  more  heardst  thou  a-listening? 

PHYSICIAN 

Only  what 

One  may  while  in  surprise  held  hesitant. 

He  spoke  of  these  two  months  awaiting  you 

And  this  Jerusalem  thaumaturgus  whom 

Strangely  he  sets  much  hope  on;  but  in  chief 

He  did  reproach  himself  for  idling  here 

For,  "whom  the  gods  will  bow  must  face  the  gods 

With  a  self  yet  unbowed,"  quoth  he;  "Both  selves 


The  City 

16 

Of  me  are  rotting  here.    What  malady 

Save  sloth  consumes  both  soul  and  body  too?" 

ANANIAS 

'Twas  wisely  listened,  and  remembered  well. 

Passing  the  rest,  let  us  arrive  at  length 

To  where  thou  vanquishedst  surprise.    What  then? 

PHYSICIAN 

I  then,  with  my  sick-room  authority, 
Drew  back  the  arras  and  appeared  to  them, 
Placed  soporific  leaves  upon  the  brasier, 
Besought  Cleonis  leave  us  for  her  chamber, 
And  proffered  Abgar  a  composing  draught. 

What  think  you?    Rather  than  accept  my  skill 
And  the  soft  dulling  ministries  of  drugs 
That  bring  the  body  rest,  he  spurns  my  hand, 
And  rising  violently  on  his  bed 
Commands  Cleonis  stay  and  me  depart! 


Morning 
i? 

I  wavered  'twixt  two  judgments ;  but  I  saw 
Such  glance  of  anger  under  his  dark  brow 
I  turned  and  left  him  in  his  weakness.     Since 
All  which  I  have  been  deep  distraught  to  know 
How  him  I  serve,  and,  I  do  swear  you,  love, 
I  may  best  bring  to  reason. 

ANANIAS 

'Twill  be  hard. 

Exasperation  is  an  angry  wound 

Thy  surgery  but  inflames,  Asklepios. 

Keep  thou  remote  from  him:  there's  means  for  thee. 

PHYSICIAN 

Thank  you,  my  lord !    I  am  rejoiced  to  find 

Your  first  so  like  my  last  deliberation ! 

It  will  be  best  to  leave  him  for  a  space, 

Perhaps  until  he  send  for  me;  and  yet 

I  love  him  and  I  would  not  seem  displeased. 


Voice  of  a  GUARD 
None  pass  without  the  royal  sign ! 

Voice  of  a  MESSENGER 

Behold  it. 

[Enter  MESSENGER,  in  haste.    Bows  and  presents 
despatches  to  ANANIAS. 

MESSENGER 

These  from  the  prefect  Mithradates  —  beg 
Instant  reply. 

ANANIAS  (Reads.     Takes  stylus  and  tablet  from  girdle 
and  writes  hurriedly} 

To  Mithradates  this. 

[Exit  MESSENGER. 

Here's  service  for  you  if  you  love  our  lord: 
Read  over  this  despatch  and  make  it  yours ; 

[Writes.    He  gives  the  PHYSICIAN  the  MES- 
SENGER'S despatch. 


Morning 
19 

Then  to  the  city  post,  seek  out  these  men, 
Both  veterans  in  the  service  of  this  house 
And  scarred  in  old  campaigns  against  its  foes. 
Speak  with  them  privily.     Antigonus 
Will  summon  guards,  and  John  the  Magistrate 
Suppress  the  public  brawl  with  sterner  force 
Than  this  seal's  lack  would  warrant  him. 

[He  seals  with  a  ring  two  packets,  and  gives 
them  to  the  PHYSICIAN. 

PHYSICIAN 

This  hour 

Doth  Abgar  with  Cleonis  haunt  this  spot. 

You'll  meet  him  here,  my  lord;   'tis  better  so. 

His  humour  is  more  genial  in  the  air 

For  taking  news  of  ill.     Commend  my  love 

With  an  apology  to  Abgar  who, 

Knowing  the  pressure,  will  condone  mine  absence. 

One  thing:  Tell  him  not  all  at  once;  but  first 

Only  as  darkening  probabilities 

Assert  them,  then  — 


The  City 

20 

ANANIAS 

Tis  sixteen  stadia  thither, 
And  thou  must  seek  Antigonus  by  noon. 
Pray,  get  to  horse  at  once. 

The  Queen  approaches; 
She  must  not  know  the  matter  of  our  speech. 

PHYSICIAN 
I  go.  [Exit. 

[Enter  CLEONIS  from  the  portico. 

CLEONIS 
Friend ! 

ANANIAS  (kneeling) 
Lo,  I  am  returned,  dear  Queen. 

CLEONIS  (raising  him,  smiling  sadly) 
What  weary  journeys  we  have  all  been  taking ! 

ANANIAS 
I  would  all  had  such  welcome  at  the  end. 


Morning 

21 

CLEONIS  (seating  herself  upon  the  dais) 

These  many  weeks  hath  Abgar  longed  for  you 
With  a  deep,  earnest  longing  of  the  soul. 
A  brief  dull  slumber  torn  from  fever's  rage 
Now  binds  him ;  for  his  nights  are  tedious. 
You  have  been  informed  as  much  but  now? 

ANANIAS 

As  much, 
But  with  more  rhetoric. 

CLEONIS 

The  poor  old  leech 
Is  very  learned,  but  his  ministries 
Have  not  availed.    I  look  with  perfect  hope 
Toward  the  arrival  of  the  Healer.     So 
Tell  me  of  him,  and  of  your  travel,  all, 
And  Uchomo  shall  straightway  learn  from  me. 

ANANIAS 

"All"  is  summed  up  in  this:  the  thought  of  him 
Whose  body's  rest  I'd  give  my  life  to  win. 


The  City 


CLEONIS 


Your  absence  lent  us  pause  to  measure  you : 

Your  putting  by  of  prejudice,  your  pure, 

Yea,  sacrificial  friendship.     Oft  whole  days 

As  he  hath  paced  these  prisoning  gardens  round, 

Subduing  his  proud  soul  within  a  frame 

Inadequate,  that  he  might  bear  the  long 

And  well-nigh  insupportable  delay 

Of  the  great  Healer's  answer,  then  of  you, 

Of  your  long,  tireless  vigilance,  your  strong 

Mid-manhood's  quiet,  unprotesting  love, 

To  me  he  spake.     And  once  he  said,  "  Of  such 

I'll  build  my  state  when  I  am  whole  again; 

Or,  lacking  others  like  him,  base  all  there!" 

ANANIAS 

Only  the  usual  grace  my  service  bears 
Of  an  hereditary  loyalty 
To  worth  unusual.    I  served  Bar-Abgar; 
My  father,  his.    I  am  a  soldier,  plain, 


Morning 
23 

And  not  much  given  to  visions ;  yet  sometimes 
For  Uchomo  there's  bred  in  my  regard 
A  sudden  tenderness  for  that  he  dreams, 
Moving  along  some  higher  plane  than  ours, 
And  seeks  to  found  our  city  in  his  dreams. 

CLEONIS 

And  never  will  our  dull  world  learn  that  dreams 

Are  all  that  fact  hath  ever  issued  from. 

But  yet  you  have  not  spoken  of  the  Healer. 

I  had  dared  half-believe  that  he  would  come 

Prepared  to  make  our  palace  his  abode 

As  ran  our  invitation  sent  by  you. 

Much  did  this  thought  alleviate  his  pain 

While  Abgar  yearned  for  that  strong  being's  touch. 

Delay  suits  not  his  temper,  and  I  fear 

The  issue.  —  He  but  follows  you  ?    His  train 

Could  not  accommodate  them  to  your  haste? 

[.4  pause.    She  speaks  with  growing  anociety. 
How  long  must  we  await  him? 


The  City 

24 

ANANIAS 

O  Cleonis, 

Forgive  that  I  ne'er  learned  the  courtier's  phrase 
To  sweeten  bitter  news !    Your  heart  is  strong, 
Made  so  in  many  troubles  early  borne. 

CLEONIS  (smothering  her  fear) 

Only  as  it  must  seem  for  Uchomo. 
I  am  too  weak  a  woman  to  bear  well 
A  loved  one's  pain. 

ANANIAS- 

His  pain  so  much  is  thine 
That  'twill  be  bravely  borne,  dear  Queen.     Know, 

then, 

The  Hebrew  prophet,  called  the  Nazarene, 
Declined  Edessa's  princely  offer. 

CLEONIS  (leaning  forward  in  excitement) 

Ah, 
Avert  such  woe,  Athena  Paionia ! 


Morning 
25 

ANANIAS  (approaching  her  as  he  speaks,  and  seating 
himself  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  dais) 

This  is  the  hardest  part  of  all  my  mission. 
Compared  to  this,  those  stony  Syrian  hills 
Are  smoother  than  the  broad  Palmyran  road. 

I  know  not  of  what  power  that  Healer  worked, 
Nor  if  he  wrought  at  all  the  cures  they  tell, 
Having  seen  his  face  but  once.     He  had  a  look 
Most  kind.     I  thought  of  Uchomo's  fair  brow, 
And  of  the  steady  light  of  his  deep  eyes 
When  he  discourses  of  his  ideal  city. 

CLEONIS  (meditatively) 
They  say  he,  too,  hath  powerful  enemies. 

ANANIAS 
From  whom  the  court  of  Abgar  promised  refuge. 

Jerusalem  swarmed.     From  up  and  down  the  kingdom 

Thronged  the  barbarians  for  their  sacrifice. 

It  seems  their  god  hath  rites  that  once  each  year 


The  City 

26 

In  the  mid-spring  exact  their  celebrations; 

And  I  must  hit  it  at  the  very  time 

When  all  their  hostels  choke,  and  every  hole 

Teems  with  their  tribesmen  gaunt  from  hill  and  plain. 

It  was  most  fortunate  I  had  of  you 

The  letter  to  the  lady  Berenis. 

She,  as  Tiberius'  niece,  holds  high  estate 

Amongst  the  Romans  of  Jerusalem. 

As  for  the  servants  of  our  retinue, 

They  needs  must  fare  ill,  like  the  pilgrims.    Me 

She  of  her  generous  hospitality 

Most  courteously  those  days  did  entertain 

In  honour  of  the  Osrhoenic  House 

Whose  latest  prince  by  fair  repute  she  loves 

For  his  just  laws  and  life. 

From  her  I  heard 

Much  of  this  preaching  carpenter  who  builds 
Such  wondrous  edifice  of  charity 
Amongst  *those  fierce  uncharitable  Jews, 
And  something  of  his  marvellous  cures,  on  which 
I  pressed  much  question  while  within  her  gates. 


Morning 
27 

Berenis,  having  friends  among  his  school, 

Herself  a  half- disciple,  unrevealed 

For  reasons  politic,  obtained  me  one 

Philip,  a  humble  Galilean,  who 

Through  the  packed  alleys  entered  where  he  taught 

And  learned  an  hour  when  we  more  privately 

Together  might  converse.     I  sought  him  then, 

This  Philip  guiding  me,  in  Bethany, 

A  hamlet  up  an  olive-sprinkled  hill 

Just  out  the  eastern  walls.     There  found  we  him 

Surrounded  by  the  trees  and  some  few  friends, 

The  village  gentry  whose  loved  guest  he  was. 

[Beckons  to  an  attendant  and  takes  a  parchment 
scroll  from  a  casket  in  the  attendant's  hand. 

CLEONIS 
Tell  me  of  his  appearance.    What  said  he? 

ANANIAS 
He  had  prepared  this  scroll  and  gave  it  me 


The  City 

28 

With  courteous  words,  yet,  as  I  after  thought, 
Most  singularly  free  from  deference 
For  one  who  ranks  with  artisans.     His  look 
Betrayed  no  satisfaction  with  our  suit ; 
Yet  he  did  emanate  a  grave  respect 
Which  seemed  habitual,  much  as  Stoics  use, 
Yet  kinder;  and  his  bearing  had  more  grace 
Than  any  Jew's  I  ever  saw  before. 

As  for  his  words,  I  own  I  scarce  recall  them, 

And  have  been  wondering  ever  since  that  I, 

Bred  at  a  court  and  tutored  to  brave  deeds, 

Should  be  so  sudden  silenced.     For  I  stood 

Obedient  to  unknown  authorities 

Which  spake  in  eye  and  tone  and  every  move, 

In  that  his  first  mild  answer  of  refusal. 

He  seemed  to  have  foreknowledge  of  our  case ;  — 

Mayhap  the  Galilean  gave  him  news 

Of  our  perplexity  and  long  delay 

In  matters  urgent  to  the  city's  welfare 

Which  I  had  hinted  of  to  Berenis. 


Morning 
29 

He  looked  on  me  with  such  compassionate  gaze 
I  had  an  impulse  to  renew  my  plea; 
But  he,  as  if  he  read  my  inmost  mind, 
Bade  me  tell  Abgar  to  contemplate  this 

[Indicating  the  scroll. 
And  shortly  all  should  be  made  clear  to  him. 

CLEONIS 

Are  you  he  who  would  yield  his  life  to  win 

Peace  for  his  tortured  master's  body  ?     Shame ! 

Oh,  had  I  gone  I  would  have  so  besought  him, 

And  stormed  him  with  the  passion  of  my  prayers, 

That  he  had  never  dared  refuse  me !    Love, 

Love  'twas  you  lacked  to  burn  your  words  in  him ! 

Had  you  loved  Abgar  even  as  duty  bids, 

Even  as  your  father  loved  Bar- Abgar  when 

He  made  the  pilgrimage  to  Epidaurus 

And  slept  upon  the  slain  goat's  skin,  and  begged 

Asklepios'  image  for  his  master's  life, 

And  so  prevailed ;  —  oh,  had  you  loved  one  half 

As  yonder  Karamanian  slave  who  stands 


The  City 

30 

All  night  on  guard  at  Abgar's  weary  head ;  — 

Or  even  one  little,  little  part  as  I 

Who,  a  poor  helpless  girl,  can  only  stroke 

The  feverish  temples,  hold  the  throbbing  wrist  — 

Oh,  you  had  begged  with  tears,  and  he  had  come 

And  healed  the  hidden  canker  of  our  lives ! 

ANANIAS  (arising) 

My  love  counts  not  its  duties ;  nor,  I  think, 
Is  love  summed  up  in  all  its  victories: 
Tis  larger,  and  includes  defeat.     In  this 
All  I  could  do  I  did,  since  there  was  power 
Would  dumb  the  boldest  suitor.    Written  here 
Is  his  deliberate  determination. 

CLEONIS  (arising.    Her  fingers  are  strained  together] 

I'll  go  myself  and  grovel  on  my  knees ! 
He  who  hath  made  the  leper  whole,  hath  caused 
The  blinded  eyes  to  flood  with  heaven's  light, 
And,  O  ye  gods !  they  say  restored  the  dead  — 


Morning 
31 

Him  shall  I  travel  to  by  night  and  day, 

And,  having  found,  shall  warm  so  with  my  tears 

That  his  indifference  shall  melt  away 

Like  April  ice  upon  Hymettus.     Oh ! 

[She  sinks,  weeping,  to  the  seat. 

ANANIAS  (gently) 

Cleonis,  I  have  twice  thy  years.    I  know 
Both  love  from  hate,  and  duty  from  indifference. 
'Twas  only  love  for  Abgar  took  me  hence 
In  perilous  times;  and  it  was  not  indifference 
Detained  the  man:  a  thing  to  ponder  on. 

CLEONIS 
Show  me  the  way  to  him,  I  do  command  you ! 

ANANIAS 

Your  journey  to  him  would  be  all  in  vain, 
Your  prayers  and  tears  in  vain,  unless,  as  some 


The  City 

32 

He  lived  among  believe,  he  was  a  god 
Who  may  be  sought  by  sorrow  anywhere. 

CLEONIS 
What  mean  you? 

ANANIAS 
He  is  dead. 

CLEONIS 

So  are  the  gods,  then ! 
Say  on. 

ANANIAS 

Even  as  I  tarried  the  last  day 
At  the  kind  house  of  Berenis,  we  heard 
He  was  condemned  to  death.     My  mission  done, 
I  bade  my  horsemen  make  all  ready,  spurred 
Out  of  the  city,  and  with  haste  departed. 

CLEONIS 

What,  waited  not  to  search  the  matter  out ! 
Subsequent  haste  might  well  have  bought  you  hours 
To  learn  this  master's  fate !    How  then,  say  you 


Morning 
33 

They  killed  him?     On  what  charge  proved  they  his 

guilt? 

ANANIAS 

That  I  know  not.    It  seemed  a  common  clamour 
For  blood  —  not  blood  of  guilt,  but  innocence. 
Their  god  must  have,  it  seems,  a  human  victim 
Along  with  the  twice  seven-score  thousand  lambs 
They  slay  at  each  of  these  strange  feasts  of  theirs. 

CLEONIS 
What  time  stayed  you  within  their  savage  city? 

ANANIAS 

Three  days.    My  interview  was  Wednesday.     On 

The  Friday  as  I  left  the  lady's  gate 

She  with  her  household  gave  us  company 

Unto  the  open  highway,  and  there  called 

Afresh  on  us  the  favour  of  the  gods 

To  cheer  our  long  return. 

Just  down  the  street 
We,  not  ten  paces  from  the  friendly  door, 


The  City 

34 

Beheld  a  noisy  rabble  that  so  pressed 

The  narrowing  way,  we  reined  our  steeds  aside 

To  wait  its  passage.     Twas  a  dreadful  sight: 

A  criminal  condemned  by  Roman  law 

To  drag  the  wretched  beam  he  was  to  die  on, 

As  is  the  usage  towards  the  baser  sort 

Who  should  not  stain  the  honourable  sword, 

Surrounded  by  a  hateful  mob  kept  off 

By  the  centurions  of  the  procurator. 

CLEONIS 

What  poor,  doomed  wretch  was  he?  —  Oh,  'twas  not 

—  not  ... 

ANANIAS 

As  they  drew  nearer,  from  my  horse  I  saw  him. 

And  it  was  he;   but  that  I  only  learned 

By  the  loud  banter  of  the  bullying  crowd. 

He  had  transgressed  some  law  those  Hebrews  have, 

And  went  to  pay  for  it  upon  the  cross. 

As  the  way  widened  past  the  high-walled  house 

Of  Berenis,  the  throng  thinned,  and  I  saw 

Plainer  the  moving  figure  of  the  man 


Morning 
35 

And  the  huge  beam  laid  on  him.  Suddenly 
From  the  great  gate  I  saw  a  form  dart  forth 
Straight  towards  him,  pause  and  seem  to  have  some 

speech 

With  the  condemned,  as,  by  old  privilege, 
Sometimes  the  pious  ladies  do  with  those 
Who  tread  the  shameful  road.     Her  speech  was  brief. 
She  turned,  and,  as  I  saw  'twas  Berenis, 
Towards  me  she  came,  and  her  eyes,  wet  with  tears, 
Smiled  sadly,  and  she  said  these  final  words : 

"Such  shame  a  mighty  purpose  led  him  to, 
Yet  he  shrinks  not,  but  steadfast  to  this  end 
Inevitable  hath  he  come  his  way. 
A  woman  of  my  house  was  healed  of  him 
By  kissing  once  the  border  of  his  garment. 
Take  your  King  this,  and  say  that  as  he  dragged 
His  cruel  but  chosen  cross  to  his  own  doom 
Some  comfort  in  its  cooling  web  he  found, 
And  left  a  blessing  in  its  pungent  folds." 

[He  takes  a  small  square  of  linen  from  his  bosom. 


The  City 

36 

A  keenly  odorous  linen  from  her  hand 

I  laid  within  my  bosom  next  the  scroll. 

And  so  we  said  farewell,  and  I  spurred  on, 

The  hoarse  mob's  laughter  down  the  blazing  street 

Making  us  glad  to  quit  the  fearful  city. 

[He  gives  the  linen  into  the  hand  of  CLEONIS. 

CLEONIS 

Oh,  let  them  never  leave  their  quiet  hills, 
These  prophets  that  dream  well  for  all  the  world ! 
Let  them  remain  in  mountains  far  from  man 
Where  nothing  fiercer  than  the  lion  roams, 
Communing  with  the  kindly  elements  — 
The  earth  that  is  their  mother,  and  the  winds 
That  are  such  spirits'  brothers,  and  the  fire 
Of  splendid  storms  that  like  their  words  breaks  forth, 
And  waters  that  flow  out  like  their  great  love ! 
They  are  of  other  worlds  and  strangers  here : 
Let  them  remain  in  mountains  —  or  in  gardens ! 

ANANIAS 
Ay,  but  we  need  such  in  this  world  of  men. 


Morning 
37 

CLEONIS 

Ye  need  them  as  the  tiger  needeth  blood ! 
Come,  show  me  one  great  soul  that  taught  you  good 
Whom  your  wild  world  would  have ;  one  bold  emprise 
Without  Protesilaus  at  the  prow? 

The  Carthaginians  exiled  Hannibal; 
The  Romans,  Scipio ;    Cicero  they  stabbed ; 
Athens  gave  Socrates  the  poison  cup 
Because  she  feared  his  truth ;    Jerusalem 
Doth  crucify  him  who  would  make  her  whole. 

O  Ananias,  this  thy  tale  for  me 

Brings  ominous  forebodings.     Pray,  beseech 

With  all  your  long-used  freedom  that  the  King 

Go  not  yet  to  the  city.     I  have  heard 

Slight  rumours  of  a  restless  populace 

That,  like  caged  eagles,  fight  the  hand  would  free, 

And  look  suspiciously  on  Uchomo. 

Is  it  not  true  that  gathering  troubles  brood 

Within  the  city? 


The  City 

38 

ANANIAS 
Yes. 

CLEONIS 

I  felt  it.    Now 
Give  me  the  whole  truth.    I've  the  heart  for  it. 

ANANIAS  (handing  her  the  MESSENGER'S  despatch) 
This  word  but  now  despatched  to  me  tells  all. 

[A  pause.    She  reads. 
CLEONIS 

Tis  all  my  fears  condensed  into  a  line. 

Now  must  your  prayers  with  mine  urge  him  remain. 

Towards  evening,  at  the  old  accustomed  hour, 

Here  meet  us  and  conclude  your  narrative 

Which  I  will  give  to  Uchomo  complete 

Up  to  the  Healer's  shameful  death ;  and  that 

Will  I  in  silence  leave  till  custom  dull 

The  lesser  sadness. 

Are  the  guards  informed? 
Is  all  precaution  taken? 


Morning 
39 

ANANIAS 

All  is  ready; 

But  I  go  now  to  double-warn  his  watch 
Against  the  morrow.     Be  not  anxious.    We 
Who  long  have  served  this  house  will  prove  our  love. 

[Exit. 

CLEONIS 
Bear  with  me,  Ananias.    My  heart  aches. 


The  City 

40 


III.  AFTERNOON 

Eight  hours  later. 

The  full  court  is  assembled,  with  ABGAR,  CLEONIS,  AN- 
ANIAS, and  ATTENDANTS.  Afterwards,  AGAMEDE. 

ABGAR  is  seated  at  the  end  of  the  stone  settle  nearest  the 
portico.  His  right  arm  rests  on  the  back  of  the  seat, 
its  hand  supporting  his  head.  His  gaze  is  fixed  upon 
the  distant  city,  so  as  to  leave  discernible  only  the  left 
side  of  his  face.  His  soldierly  short  black  hair  and 
strong  profile  are  accentuated  by  the  eager  forward 
thrusting  of  the  neck.  A  flowing  white  chlamys  is 
thrown  aside  from  his  left  shoulder,  revealing  a 
severe  military  dress.  The  free  hand  rests  upon 
and  clasps  the  hilt  of  a  sword  suspended  at  the  hip. 

CLEONIS  sits  full  front,  a  little  removed  from  ABGAR,  on 
the  settle,  her  hands  folded  before  her,  and  her  head 
resting  somewhat  wearily  against  the  high  back  of 
the  seat.  Her  garment  is  a  peplus  of  azure  wool. 

ANANIAS  sits  below  her  on  the  steps  at  her  right,  his  gaze 
directed  to  ABGAR.  His  altitude,  that  of  interrupted 


Afternoon 
41 

narration,  presents  the  right  side  of  his  face  and  form 

profiled  against  tlie  oleander  leaves.    A  scroll  lies 

open  in  his  hands. 
The  SLAVE- BOY  stands  in  waiting  at  some  distance  on  the 

ground  to  the  left  of  ABGAR,  immediately  behind 

whom  stands  his  great  BODY  SLAVE. 
In  the  middle  background,  grouped  in  the  foliage,  stand 

the  Queen's  women  in  fresh  garments  of  various 

bright  colours. 

Armed  guards  are  stationed  in  the  extreme  background. 
The  soft  light  of  advancing  dusk  fills  the  garden,  but  the 

undulating  plain  seen  through  the  trees,  and  the 

white  walls  of  the  city,  are  suffused  with  rich  sun- 


Music  of  lyres.     The  women  are  singing. 

CHORUS 

./Egina's  foam  is  high  and  wild 
Where  Pan  immortal  sits  enisled; 
But  thou  and  I  with  flying  oar 
Seek  Psyttaleia's  sacred  shore. 


The  City 

42 

The  City  of  the  Violet  Crown 
Well  knows  that  rocky  island's  frown ; 
But  thou  and  I  together  learned 
What  fires  upon  her  altars  burned. 

Oh,  many  a  sail  goes  gleaming  there 
Bound  for  some  olive-garden  fair; 
But  thou  and  I  made  fast  to  her 
And  found  her  cypress  lovelier. 

The  shrines  of  Aphrodite  lift 
Their  smoke  in  every  village- rif t ; 
But  thou  and  I  remote  from  man 
Propitiate  the  woodland  Pan. 
[As  the  song  ends,  CLEONIS  waves  dismissal 
to  the  women. 

ABGAR 

More  music  while  I  think.    Some  martial  air. 
There's  one  of  Alexander's  men.    Sing  that. 


Afternoon 
43 

CLEONIS  (speaking  over- shoulder  to  the  women) 

That  song  of  Arbela. 

(To  herself.) 
Unsoothing  sound ! 

CHORUS 

I  see  the  Macedonian's  foes 
Where  Zab,  the  fatal  river,  flows; 
A  million,  chariot  and  horse, 
And  spearmen  of  the  Persian's  force 

Orontes  and  the  Euxine  gave, 
The  Oxus  and  the  Caspian  wave; 
Jaxartes,  Kashgar,  Indus,  far 
Swell  the  bright  rushing  tide  of  war ! 

I  see  the  Persian  innermost 
Of  all  his  vast  assembled  host, 
Around  him  in  protecting  groups 
Legions  of  mercenary  troops : 


The  City 

44 

Melophori,  and  Mardian  bows, 
Albanians,  Carians  interpose, 
With  Indian  elephants,  between 
The  monarch  and  his  foe  unseen. 

A  score  and  five  the  nations  are 
Preceded  by  the  scythed  car, 
And  Cappadocia's  cavalry 
For  numbers  like  the  waving  sea. 

Who  comes  upon  them?    O'er  the  plain 
The  Macedonian  sweeps  amain ! 
I  see  his  phalanx  solid-speared.  .  .  . 

ABGAR  (arising  suddenly} 

'Tis  thus  a  world's  won !    Alexander  led 
But  two-score  thousand  men,  but  them  he  led ! 
Ha,  how  the  many- captained  Persians  ran 
Before  that  godlike  youth  ! 

[He  unsheathes  his  sword  and  diagrams  on  the 
ground. 

Darius'  centre, 


Afternoon 
45 

Bared  of  the  Bactrian  cohorts  at  his  left 

Who  would  outflank  the  slantwise  charging  right 

Of  Macedon,  exposed  both  front  and  side 

To  Alexander's  horse  and  spearmen.     Here 

Plunged  in  that  son  of  Philip,  whose  assault 

Filled  the  great  King  with  terror,  so  he  fled 

Treading  his  crumbled  empire  in  the  dust. 

[He  drops  to  his  seat,  taking  former  position. 
Yet  Alexander  and  Darius  both 
Are  dead.     And  what  avail  the  conqueror 
Issus  and  Arbela?  —  Do  they  comfort  him 
Down  there  among  the  shades?    What  victory 
Won  Alexander  that  his  naked  soul 
May  deck  him  with  where  dwelleth  Socrates? 

[A  pause.    He  turns,  quietly,  addressing  ANANIAS. 
Conclude  the  Hebrew's  letter,  Ananias. 

ANANIAS  (reading) 

"As  to  the  part  of  your  epistle  which 
Concerns  my  going  hence  to  visit  you, 
Know  that  I  have  a  mission  to  fulfil 


The  City 

46 

In  mine  own  city,  and  must  here  remain 
Till  all  its  ends  be  satisfied.    Yet  you 
Of  your  infirmity  shall  know  full  cure, 
And  those  most  dear  to  you  have  peace. 

"Farewell." 
CLEONIS 

See,  he  doth  promise  healing !    Reads  not  more 
On  any  margin,  or  betwixt  the  lines, 
To  indicate  how  such  a  joy  may  be? 

ANANIAS 
Nay,  I  have  now  read  every  word  to  you. 

CLEONIS  (bending  forward) 

Hand  me  the  letter. 

[ANANIAS  arises,  and  gives  her  the  scroll. 

Why,  these  very  lines 

We  did  pass  over  lightly,  they  seem  charged 
With  hidden  meaning.  [She  reads,  thoughtfully. 

"Abgar,  forasmuch 


Afternoon 
47 

As  ye  believed  on  me  whom  ye  knew  not, 
Shall  happiness  be  yours.    For  it  is  wrote 
Concerning  me  that  they  should  not  believe 
Who  have  beheld,  that  those  who  dwell  afar 
And  see  not  might  have  faith  and  life  abundant." 

See  you  not  something  there,  O  Abgar? 

ABGAR 

Much. 

Did  I  not  ask  for  music,  hearing  that? 

I  shall  be  healed !    The  ebbing  springs  of  life 

Will  flow  again  as  full  they  flowed  of  yore ! 

My  city,  O  my  city !  thou  shalt  know 

Again  the  joyous  tread  of  other  days, 

When  all  thy  booths  and  palaces  and  shrines 

With  multitudes  of  helpless,  longing  folk 

First  knew  me  theirs  to  build,  protect,  and  love ! 

I  have  not  yet  resolved  the  Healer's  words 
Into  clear  meaning;  but  their  crystal  soon 
In  the  still  cup  of  contemplation  may 


The  City 

48 

Give  up  its  precious  drug  to  heal  our  cares. 
What  said  he  of  it,  Ananias?    "Shortly 
Should  all  be  clear  that's  written  in  this  scroll"? 

ANANIAS 

Those  are  the  words,  my  lord,  in  giving  me 
His  answer  spake  the  Nazarene. 

ABGAR 

Consider. 

I  offered  him  my  realm's  protection;  peace; 
A  sanctuary  of  philosophy ; 

And  a  disciple  not  without  an  arm.  [A  pause. 

Now,  more  than  ever,  do  I  long  to  see  him; 
What  won  my  reverence  now  provokes  my  love. 
His  city  hates  him.     Oh,  that  he  were  here ! 

[He  springs  to  his  feet,  and  paces  up  and  down 
the  dais. 

ANANIAS 
I  think,  my  lord,  he  weighed  all  this,  so  firm 


Afternoon 
49 

His  speech  revealed  him,  as  if  all  debate 

He,  silent,  had  passed  through  at  once  forever. 

ABGAR  (eagerly] 

How  well  thou  hast  divined  this  sort  of  soul ! 
Planted  upon  his  rock,  he  sees  all  else 
As  drift  and  wreckage  of  the  stormy  seas 
That  surge  around  him,  yet  can  touch  him  not. 

There  is  but  one  decision  for  such  man, 
And,  after  that,  concession,  compromise, 
Expediency  —  these  enter  not  at  all 
Into  the  fabric  of  his  meditation. 
To  such  death  is  not.     For  untainted  is 
The  source  of  life,  and  solid  is  the  rock. 
To  those  who  go  down  in  the  trough  upon 
Their  own  poor  broken  spar,  that  rock  is  hid 
With  him  upon  it,  and  they  call  him  dead. 
I  will  send  other  embassies  to  him  — 
Not  importuning  him,  but  to  have  words 
To  ponder  on.     Or,  maybe,  go  myself, 


The  City 

5° 

For  I  already  feel  renewed  within 

By  the  great  soul  of  him  who  hath  opposed  me. 

CLEONIS  (approaching  ABGAR,  and  laying  her  hands 
in  his) 

Uchomo,  hast  thou  all  the  love  for  me 
That  thou  didst  woo  me  with  those  perfect  days 
Amid  the  cloves  and  laurels  where  the  sea 
Flung  its  white  arms  among  ^gina's  isles? 
Still  the  old  love  that  bore  me  in  our  barque 
Far  on  those  sunlit  waters  where  but  faint 
The  cry  of  men,  and  even  the  gleam  of  sails, 
Came  to  us  in  our  niche  among  the  hills? 

Yes,  yes,  I  know !    I  ask  to  be  assured 
By  the  old  light  rekindled  in  thine  eyes. 

O  Uchomo,  the  constancy  of  love 

Hath  not  performed  its  service  until  pain 

Doth  weld  both  hearts  inseparably. 

Not  all 

At  once  to-day  did  I  repeat  to  thee 
Of  what  our  Ananias  hath  brought  back. 


Afternoon 
Si 

ABGAR 
I  felt  that  more  would  come  in  love's  own  time. 

CLEONIS  (taking  the  linen  from  her  bosom) 

This  brought  he  back  to  thee  with  him.    It  bears 
The  dying  benediction  of  the  Man. 

She  who  bestows  it,  lady  Berenis, 
Invoked  his  healing  power  upon  its  folds. 

ABGAR 
His  city  slew  him? 

CLEONIS 
Took  away  his  life ! 

ABGAR  (receiving  the  linen) 

Not  that !    For  he  shall  live  forever  here, 

And  in  the  bosoms  of  philosophers. 

Such  life  shall  grow  and  blossom,  and  bear  fruit  — 

Yea,  here  in  mine  own  city  shall  it  grow ! 

[A  pause.     He  turns  suddenly,  with  outspread 
arms,  and  uplifted  head. 


The  City 

52 

I  feel  it  now !    All  through  these  withered  veins 
I  feel  it  bound  and  glow !    O  life,  life,  life  1 

[He  clasps  CLEONIS  in  his  arms. 

[Voices  at  the  gate.  Enter  from  thence  AGA- 
MEDE,  exhausted.  Her  long,  white  gar- 
ment of  the  morning  is  stained  and 
disarranged,  and  her  grey  hair  is  loose. 
She  walks  uncertainly  towards  the  dais. 

[CLEONIS,  in  surprise,  runs  and  supports  her 
in  her  embrace. 

AGAMEDE  (breathless) 

Yet  not  for  this  —  this  even  —  deem  friendship  vain, 
And  sister  a  light  name !  —  Vow  that  to  me ! 

CLEONIS 
Sweet  sister  Agamede ! 

ABGAR  (to  Slave-boy) 

Fetch  her  wine. 

[Boy  brings  wine,  of  which  AGAMEDE  partakes. 
(Lifting  his  hands  to  her) 


Afternoon 
53 

Be  sure  of  us,  dear  Agamede !    All 
Assembled  here  are  bound  to  thee  by  love 
And  thy  long,  tender  years  of  care  for  us. 
The  world  is  full  of  beauty,  strength,  and  love ! 

[CLEONIS  leads  AGAMEDE  to  a  seat,  and  sits 
beside  her  comfortingly.     A  pause. 

AGAMEDE  (to  CLEONIS) 

What  words  and  looks  are  these  from  Uchomo? 

Oh,  was  it  all  a  frightful  dream  that  I 

Since  dawn  this  day  have  fought  with  Nemesis? 

CLEONIS 
That  was  thy  dream,  dear  one. 

ABGAR 

Some  dream  this  was. 

AGAMEDE 

Thou  splendid  youth !    What  god  hath  wrought  on  thee 
Whilst  I  was  dreaming?     Came  he  hither,  then, 
That  Galilean  Healer  long  desired? 


The  City 

54 

ABGAR 
Thou  seest  me  healed  by  him.    We  dream  no  more. 

AGAMEDE  (passing  a  hand  over  her  eyes) 

Oh,  but  I  dreamt  not ! 

(Reluctantly) 

Abgar,  of  thy  house 

One  hath  turned  traitor  and  conspired  with  those 
Who  long  have  wished  thee  ill.     More,  too,  I  find, 
O  King:  lords  Umbar  and  Athmantides 
Have  been  beset  by  the  wild  populace 
And  are  imprisoned  by  them  in  the  Tower. 

ABGAR 
How  learn  you  this? 

AGAMEDE 

Fresh  from  those  scenes  I  come. 

CLEONIS  and  ABGAR 
What!    From  the  city  thou? 


Afternoon 
55 

CLEONIS 

What  stains  are  these? 
What  woe  hath  overtaken  thee? 

ABGAR 

Spare  not 

A  great  peace  dwells  in  this  abode.     Not  thou, 
O  wife  of  Glaucon,  canst  bring  anguish  here, 
Nor  bow  our  hearts  with  any  woe  but  thine; 
On  which,  if  aught  there  be,  the  kingdom  shall 
Be  spent  for  remedies.     Speak  slowly  all. 

AGAMEDE 

It  is  my  woe,  mine  own  familiar  woe 
As  I  had  learned  it  in  forgotten  ages. 
Two  kinds  of  woe  which  I  had  known  before 
Shall  never  seem  so  old  a  woe  as  this; 
And  there  is  ransom  from  all  other  kinds, 
When  we  go  back  into  the  earth ;   but  this, 
Once  known,  shall  be  a  terror  in  the  soul 
And  in  Elysium  even  cloud  it  o'er 
With  memories  that  Lethe  cannot  quell ! 


The  City 

56 

ANANIAS 
'Twere  well  to  speak  directly  of  this  matter. 

AGAMEDE  (to  ABGAR) 

Forgive,  O  Abgar,  first,  that  how  and  why 
I  came  into  the  city,  or  with  whom, 
I  now  conceal.    Let  it  suffice  that  one 
I  followed  fleeing  thither  who  confessed, 
In  part  because  I  persecuted  so, 
In  part  that,  sure  of  their  complete  design, 
The  traitors  fear  not  now  if  it  be  known. 

What  I  found  in  the  city  first  I  tell: 

Of  all  your  officers  of  public  works 

Who  build  and  broaden,  cleanse  and  sweep  away, 

These  twain  have  most  incurred  the  rabble's  wrath, 

The  stewards  Umbar  and  Athmantides ; 

Because  their  duties  —  as  chief  overseers 

Of  the  new  sewers  —  do  seem  sacrilege 

In  that  the  city's  soil  so  deep  is  dug 

That  antique  gods  of  stone,  once  worshipped  there 


Afternoon 
57 

By  the  old  Syrian  fathers  of  the  folk, 

Have  been  disturbed  in  their  forgotten  slumbers. 

And  certain  who  oppose  themselves  to  all 

The  strange  reforms  that  are  pushed  forward  so 

Have  used  this  pretext  of  indignant  gods 

To  stir  the  people  and  arrest  the  works. 

ABGAR 

How  comes  it  Delius  lets  the  mob  prevail? 
Where  is  Belarion  that  such  passion  rules? 

AGAMEDE 

Belarion  'tis  —  I  choke  to  say  his  name !  — 
Who  stirs  them  to  revenge. 

ABGAR 

Athmantides 

And  Umbar  have  their  sovereign's  instant  care. 
My  chariot  and  guard  within  an  hour 
Shall  bear  me  to  Edessa. 

(To  SLAVE-BOY) 

Hasten,  boy; 


The  City 

58 

Bid  Moschus  have  the  new  Arabians  combed, 
And  all  prepared  for  travel  in  the  hour. 

[Exit  SLAVE- BOY. 

What !  is  it  thus,  my  city,  whom  these  dreams 
Have  glorified  with  perfectness?    And  ye, 
O  people  of  my  ceaseless  watch  and  care, 
Could  ye  not  be  content  a  little  while 
Till  my  poor  body  was  made  sound  for  you  ? 

CLEONIS  (in  pain) 
Uchomo,  I  forbid  thee  leave  our  sight ! 

ANANIAS 
Nay,  Abgar,  go  not ! 

CLEONIS 

Thou  wilt  straight  undo 
All  the  slow  betterment  of  these  long  weeks. 

ANANIAS 

My  word  commands,  being  given  authority. 
The  seal  I  bear  persuades  with  eloquence. 


Afternoon 
59 

ABGAR  (sitting.    He  looks  towards  the  city} 

I  am  the  King.     From  my  deliberation, 
Revolved  in  silence  when  the  world's  asleep, 
I  am  not  easy  moved  by  hate  or  love, 
Nor  do  I  rise  by  impulse  to  bold  deeds; 
But  it  hath  ever  been  my  studious  care 
So  ripened  for  emergency  to  be 
That  through  my  meditations  naught  can  fall 
I  may  not  welcome  with  the  fittest  deed. 

CLEONIS 
Yet  go  not !    Oh,  thou  knowest  not ! 

ANANIAS 

Our  tongues 
Till  now  were  justified  in  secrecy. 

I  must  inform  you,  Abgar,  that  a  band 
Of  impious  men  who  fear  nor  god  nor  man 
Plot  for  your  life.    A  treble  guard  is  placed 
Around  these  walls  lest  any  of  their  spies 
Steal  to  you  unperceived ;  while  yonder  now 
Within  the  city  trusty  officers 


The  City 

60 

Under  the  Prefect  Mithradates'  eye 
Take  evidence  to  blot  out  that  perfidy. 

AGAMEDE 

For  days  hath  nested  'twixt  these  garden  walls 

A  withered  and  implacable  Erinys 

Ready  to  give  the  signal  for  assault. 

It  wanted  only  Ananias'  presence 

To  ripen  it,  and  they  intend  this  night 

With  all  the  force  B  clarion  can  assemble 

To  make  attack.     'Tis  no  mere  mutiny. 

Beginning  such,  the  poison  hath  been  spread 

Till  now  a  revolution  threatens  all. 

This  flew  I  back  to  tell  the  sentinels 

And  Ananias'  guard  which  paces  here. 

CLEONIS  (as  though  suddenly  enlightened) 
Where  is  Stilbe? 

AGAMEDE  (shrinking) 

There  is  no  Stilbe  more. 


Afternoon 
61 

ABGAR  (placing  one  hand  out  upon  the  heads  of  the  two 
women,  who  have  drawn  together,  and  with  the 
other  inviting  ANANIAS  up  to  a  seat  beside  him) 

Peace,  peace !    They  have  but  once  to  see  their  King 
Strong  as  of  old,  and  riding  with  his  guard ! 

(To  a  SLAVE) 

Ho,  Imbros,  run  to  Moschus  and  make  speed 
With  preparations  for  departure.     Standards, 
Torches  and  all  the  trappings  of  the  mews 
Provide  my  escort.     See  all  busy.    Thou, 

(To  his  BODY  SLAVE) 
Gyges,  make  ready  the  new  armour  —  that 
Tiberius  had  forged  and  sent  to  me 
From  Capri.  —  They  will  cheer  the  casque  of  gold. 

[Exit  SLAVES. 
You,  faithful  friends,  and  thou,  Cleonis,  hearken. 

[During  the  following,  the  scene  gradually  dark- 
ens till  the  garden  is  left  entirely  in  the  dusk. 
Then  a  few  stars  shine  through  the  trees,  and 
the  moon  begins  to  rise. 


The  City 

62 

Last  night,  to  complement  two  wondrous  dreams 
Had  on  the  two  preceding  nights,  there  came 
A  third,  most  vivid,  and  most  wonderful. 

In  the  first  vision  like  to  this  I  dreamed : 

I  stood  upon  a  height.    Spread  out  below, 

Dark,  silent,  shapeless,  a  vast  city  —  dead  — 

Where  in  far  ages  of  this  furrowed  world 

Strong  men  and  women  took  their  taste  of  life. 

All  now  was  desolation  absolute; 

And  through  that  wreck  of  fortress,  mart  and  fane, 

And  fallen  mausoleum  crowded  o'er 

With  characters  for  evermore  unread, 

Only  the  wind's  soft  hands  went  up  and  down 

Scattering  the  obliterative  sands. 

I,  led  in  trance  by  shapes  invisible, 

Approached  a  temple's  splendid  architrave 

Half  sunk  in  sod  betwixt  its  columns'  bases, 

And  there  by  sudden  divination  read 

The  deep-cut  legend  of  that  awful  gate : 

APPEASE   WITH   SACRIFICE   THE   UNKNOWN   POWERS. 


Afternoon 
63 

Between  the  roofless,  tottering  pillars  there 

A  countless  flock  had  fed  the  holocaust  — 

Numberless  innocents  drenched  the  steaming  altars, 

Outpouring  their  propitiative  blood. 

And  prayers  and  tears  and  cringings  of  a  world 

Through  them  did  seek  the  appeasing  way  —  in 

vain. 
And  the  black  night  came  down  upon  my  dream. 

Next  night  I  found  me  in  a  twilit  place 

Wherein  the  same  compelling,  gentle  hands 

Held  me.    And  from  mine  eminence  I  saw 

A  newer  city  builded  on  like  dust  — 

A  trodden  sand  that  could  afford  to  wait. 

Streets  hummed,  and  multitudes  on  multitudes 

Along  their  river-quays,  in  highways  broad, 

Or  up  their  little  ramifying  lanes, 

Unceasing  plied  their  single  life  away. 

They  toiled,  or  played,  or  fought,  or  sued  the  gods, 

Absorbed  each  in  his  own  peculiar  lust, 

As  if  there  were  no  morrow  watching  them ; 


The  City 

64 

Yet  each  was  happier  in  the  morrow- dream 
Than  ever  in  all  achieved  yesterdays. 

I  was  so  high  above  them  as  to  see 

Their  little  deeds  and  mean  anxieties, 

Wholly,  as  one  surveys  a  mound  of  ants 

At  their  laborious  atom  industries. 

Above  them  spread  the  splendid  heavens  filled 

With  palpitating  sunlight;   all  around, 

The  sources  inexhaustible  of  life, 

And  plenitudes  of  peace.     But  there  they  swarmed, 

Striving  —  some  bravely ;   offering  —  some  in  truth : 

But  all  with  inward  thought  and  eyes  on  earth. 

And  so  I  saw  them  grow,  and  grieve,  and  die. 

And  as  I  looked,  I  saw  a  man  who  long 

In  upward  meditation  on  his  roof 

Sat  all  alone,  communing  with  his  soul. 

And  he  arose,  and  presently  went  down, 

Down  in  the  long  black  streets  among  his  kind, 

And  there  with  patience  taught  them  steadfastly. 


Afternoon 
65 

But,  for  the  restless  souls  he  made  in  them, 

They  turned  and  slew  him  and  went  on  their  ways. 

And  a  great  fog  crept  up  and  covered  all. 

Again  the  third  time  I  was  lifted  up. 

A  mighty,  living,  beautiful  walled  town, 

A- wave  with  trees,  lay  shining  on  the  plain. 

And  underneath  her  walls  a  river  glided 

Safe  bearing  her  full  many  a  peaceful  sail. 

And  there  lived  folk  who  all  day  worked  and  sang, 

And  folk  that  to  and  fro  sped  silently; 

And  here  and  there  some  sat  apart  and  thought. 

From  all  whom  throbbed  a  joy  in  unison 

With  the  warm  earth  and  her  enfolding  heavens; 

Through  all,  the  strong,  perpetual  streams  of  life 

That  through  the  universe  unceasing  flow. 

And  this  dream  ended  not  with  cloud  or  mist, 

But  slow  receded  in  its  radiance 

Till  it  grew  small  as  towers  and  sails  and  stream 

That  whiten  yonder  to  the  rising  moon. 

And  as  it  went  I  heard  a  voice  that  said : 


The  City 

66 

"Thou,  Abgar,  art  the  King  of  cities  three: 
The  Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Yet-to-Come. 
Out  of  the  Past  the  Present  by  slow  pain 
And  undiscerning  upward  agonies ; 
Out  of  the  Present,  by  as  many  throes, 
The  city  of  Celestial  Harmony." 

Then  faded  all,  and  I  awoke  and  saw 
Through  the  wide  window  of  my  prison  here 
My  city  gleaming  on  its  tree-plumed  levels, 
And  waiting  in  its  troubled  sleep  —  for  me ! 

Fear  not  for  me :  I  go  unto  the  city. 

[CLEONIS  clings  to  ABGAR'S  neck.  He,  erect, 
the  left  arm  holding  CLEONIS,  the  right 
pointing  to  the  city  which  is  now  full  in 
the  light  of  the  risen  moon. 
[The  distant  noise  of  preparation  for  depar- 
ture fills  the  garden  with  sound. 


Evening 
67 


IV.  EVENING 

An  hour  later. 

The  only  light  is  that  of  the  moon,  which  enfilades  the 
little  open  spaces  among  the  leaves  and  along  the 
ground,  and  shines  full  over  the  open  country  beyond 
the  garden. 

The  garden  is  empty  of  people.  There  are  sounds  of 
stamping  hoofs,  shouted  orders,  hurried  footsteps, 
within  the  palace  and  beyond  the  wall.  In  the 
pauses  of  these  sounds  far  in  the  distance  from  the 
direction  of  the  city  come  indistinct  murmurs  like 
human  cries.  Presently  a  faint  bugle-call  thrice  re- 
peated. The  sounds  decrease. 

AGAMEDE  and  CLEONIS  in  the  shadow  of  the  portico. 
AGAMEDE  stands  with  arms  stretched  out  towards 
the  oleanders,  and  is  softly  singing. 

AGAMEDE 

Grow,  grow,  thou  little  tree, 
His  body  at  the  roots  of  thee; 


The  City 

68 

Since  last  year's  loveliness  in  death 
The  living  beauty  nourisheth. 

Bloom,  bloom,  thou  little  tree, 
Thy  roots  around  the  heart  of  me; 
Thou  canst  not  blow  too  white  and  fair 
From  all  the  sweetness  hidden  there. 

Die,  die,  thou  little  tree, 
And  be  as  all  sweet  things  must  be; 
Deep  where  thy  petals  drift  I,  too, 
Would  rest  the  changing  seasons  through. 

CLEONIS 

Let  us  sit  here  and  wait  for  Uchomo. 

[They  sit  on  the  steps  oj  the  portico. 
These  last  strange  quiet  moments  spent  with  thee 
Have  wrought  some  change  in  me,  I  know  not  what. 
Whereas  I  was  half-girl,  this  day  of  storm, 
O  woman  of  sorrow,  hath  made  me  calm  as  thou ; 
Hath  shown  me  heights  and  deeps,  and  swallowed  up 
All  fear  of  death  or  life.    We  are  secure. 


Evening 
69 

AGAMEDE 

Not  in  an  hour  was  wrought  this  change  in  thee. 
Thyself  hast  wrought  it  day  by  day  in  toil 
For  what  thou  lovest,  forgetting  what  thou  art. 
These  final  moments  show  thyself  to  thee. 

CLEONIS 

Thou  hast  known  all  these  things  for  many  years. 

[Enter  ABGAR,  armed,  wearing  his  golden  hel- 
met. 

[He  bends  over  CLEONIS,  who  arises  and  joins 
him.  They  descend  to  the  garden. 

[AGAMEDE  remains  on  the  steps  a  moment,  her 
hands  extended  as  in  blessing  towards  the 
receding  pair,  then  steals  into  the  palace. 

ABGAR 

Dost  thou,  love,  feel  a  strange,  new  sense  of  peace? 

To  me  it  is  as  if  another  air 

Had  suddenly  enveloped  our  sad  earth. 


The  City 

70 

CLEONIS 
The  atmosphere  of  oceans  tranquillized. 

ABGAR 

Wherein  our  barque  doth  move  on  steadily 
As  by  some  other  force  than  chance  of  winds. 

CLEONIS 

In  the  old  days  when  far  we  searched  the  seas 
In  our  light- skimming  pinnace,  thou  and  I, 
Sometimes  it  bended  in  and  out  the  isles 
And  no  wind  seemed  to  have  the  care  of  it. 
Then  thought  I,  like  a  foolish,  dreaming  girl, 
That  beautiful,  strong  hands  beneath  us  bore 
Our  barque  of  love. 

We  have  lived  inland  long. 

ABGAR 

To  me  there  is  no  inland,  having  thee ! 
Our  love's  a  golden  sea  set  thick  with  green 
And  aromatic  islands  whose  shores  know 


Evening 
7i 

Such  wreckage  only  as  bright,  tide-plucked  flowers 
That  grow,  unguessed,  too  deep  for  touch  of  storm. 

Come  to  our  garden-seat.    The  moment  nears 
When  we  must  for  a  little  while  be  parted. 

[They  mount  the  dais  and  sit. 

[A  pause,  during  which  the  murmur  from  the 

city  is  renewed. 

He  said  that  shortly  all  should  be  made  clear. 
I  think  his  words  grow  plainer  to  me,  yet  .  .  . 
Is  there  no  other  way  our  world  will  learn? 

CLEONIS 

Only  through  abnegation's  sacrifice; 

Only  renouncement,  that  shall  raise  dead  hearts. 

None  may  believe  who  have  beheld,  because 

This  mortal  vision  makes  them  blind  of  soul. 

Men  may  not  see  with  soul  and  body  both  : 

This  now  I  see  who  was  till  now  one  blind, 

And  under  the  charm  of  fear.    The  man  spake  well. 


The  City 

72 

ABGAR 

Not  distance,  nor  yet  death,  shall  separate 
The  souls  of  those  whose  vision  is  made  clear. 
Lo,  he  abideth  with  us  evermore 
Who  would  not  come  to  us  the  way  of  flesh, 
And  in  the  spirit  makes  us  whole. 

That  mind 

Hath  turned  my  course  of  longing  utterly : 
I  longed  for  healing  only  of  this  flesh 
That  I  might  serve  my  state  —  asked  not  for  more ; 
Yet  how  in  his  refusal  he  transcends 
My  widest  prayer ! 

CLEONIS 

"  Of  your  infirmity 

Shall  you  know  yet  full  cure ;   and  those  have  peace 
Who  are  most  dear  to  you." 

That  peace  is  here. 

ABGAR 
O  love,  I  never  saw  thee  till  this  hour 


73 

So  beautiful!    How  all  the  world  is  changed! 
Let  us  grow  old  together  in  this  way. 

Cixxmm 

Always  together,  well  or  ffl  betide: 
Promise  me  this,  O  love  — tin  death's  own  ho 


Yea!    For  no  ffl  can  ever  meet  us  so! 
[Sound  oj  the 

Caam 

I  have  thy  promise.    listen,  at  yon  gate 
Iffosdms  is  fff^™^"y  with  thg  chariot. 
Igowiththee!    Oh,  never,  never  apart ! 

ABGAK 

I  wfll  "T*iM*  in  thee  to-morrow,  lore. 

Stay  tnf  fp^  thus;  tfa£  numbered  inoments  flV. 

Knowest  than  not  I  am  made  strong  for  this? 

CLEOXIS  (dimgimg  to  Mm) 
tUt  ^t*'"  hast  said  01  cannot  meet  us  so. 
Together,  always,  even  to  the  hour  of  death! 


The  City 

74 

ABGAR 

Yea,  that  I  know !    Come,  then.    Not  all  earth's  power 
Shall  snatch  us  twain  asunder.     To  the  city  1 

CLEONIS 

It  is  the  promise :   Peace  and  life  abundant. 

[They  descend  to  the  ground,  and  are  inter- 
rupted in  their  exit  by  the  BODY  SLAVE, 
who  enters,  running,  from  the  palace. 

SLAVE 

Flee,  flee!    Armed  bands  of  thrice  our  guard's  full 

strength 
Ride  here ! 

[He  runs  centre,  mounting  the  dais  and  shading 

his  eyes  towards  the  city. 
I  see  their  helmets  on  the  plain. 
O  King,  your  chariot  quick!  and  southward  turn: 
Thapsacus  is  our  ancient  ally.    Flee ! 
That  friendly  city  may  be  reached  in  safety. 
One  of  her  trading  craft  lies  on  the  river 


Evening 
75 

Waiting  for  dawn  to  slip  her  anchorage. 
Moschus  and  I  will  bear  you  with  the  Queen 
Swift  charioting  thither. 

ABGAR 

To  Thapsacus, 

To  the  old,  noble  town  where  Xenophon 
With  the  Ten  Thousand  crossed  Euphrates'  flood, 
I,  fleeing  at  night  away  from  foes  unseen? 

[He  mounts  the  dais,  his  arm  still  encircling 

CLEONIS.     They  look  towards  the  city. 
Return  thou  to  thy  duty  at  the  postern, 
And  fortify  thy  heart  with  the  calm  night. 
The  guards  without  are  ready;   we  within 
Are  confident  and  undisturbed.  [Exit  SLAVE. 

CLEONIS 

Look,  love, 

How  beautiful !    Along  that  road  of  gold 
Which  in  and  out  among  the  new- sown  fields 
Mocks  with  its  shining  course  the  winding  river, 


The  City 

76 

They  sparkle  like  heroic  panoplies, 

With  helmet,  shield,  and  spear  beneath  the  moon. 

ABGAR 

It  is,  indeed,  most  beautiful  and  strange. 

[They  stand  some  moments  in  silence,  facing 
the  city  and  the  open  country ,  and  watch- 
ing  the   advance   0}   the   troops.    Again 
the  sullen  murmur  of  the  city.     Twice  or 
thrice  CLEONIS  lifts  her  hand  to  the  scene 
and  turns  her  head  half  round  to  ABGAR. 
[The  sound  of  galloping  hoofs  grows   near. 
The  horses  at  the  gate  paw  and  neigh. 
There  are  movements  among  the  guard, 
and  within  the  palace. 
[A  red  light  flares  from  one  end  of  the  city. 
O  city !  many  a  time  and  oft  have  I 
Preserved  thy  peace  through  toil  and  bitter  pain, 
Turning  away  the  foeman  from  thy  gates  1 
Oh,  I  have  loved  with  yearnings  infinite 
Even  as  a  father  pitieth  his  child ! 


Evening 
77 

But  what  can  save  thee  from  thyself?    Not  love. 

What  needest  thou?    What  wilt  thou  of  me  more? 

My  life?     Can  that  avail  thee  in  the  end? 

If  mortal  vision  make  thee  blind  of  soul 

Can  death  —  can  that  appease,  and  bring  thee  sight  ? 

[There  is  an  onset  at  the  gate. 

[Enter  women  from  tlie  left,  flying  into  the  palace. 

FIRST  WOMAN 
Flee,  flee  1 

SECOND  WOMAN 
There's  murder  at  the  gate ! 

THIRD  WOMAN 

Oh,  flee! 

[The  gate  bursts  open,  but  is  still  dej ended. 

The  fighting  is  along  the  wall. 
[Enter  ANANIAS  from  the  gate,  wounded. 

ANANIAS 

Where's   Uchomo?    Where's   Cleonis?     Where's   my 
King? 


The  City 

78 

We  cannot  hold  them  off.    They  beat  us  down 
Like  sudden  whirlwinds.     Oh,  I  think  I  die. 

[CLEONIS  tears  a  strip  from  her  robe;  then, 
as  if  by  a  fortunate  recollection,  plucks 
the  square  of  linen  from  the  bosom  oj 
ABGAR,  and  binds  it  over  the  wound  with 
the,  strip. 

Oh,  cowardly  to  yield  thee  up  a  day 
From  my  long  watchful  care !     Oh,  base  to  turn, 
When  needed  most,  even  at  thy  own  command ! 

ABGAR  (supporting  him  tenderly) 

Dear  friend,  thou  art  the  other  side  the  loom. 
Thou  canst  not  see  what  wondrous  web  is  wrought 
By  this  blind  weaver  Fate !    All's  well  with  us. 

ANANIAS 

Two  months  —  two  months  away  from  thee !    Indeed 
There  was  delay  —  the  mountain  roads  were  rough. 
But  —  pray,  forgive  me  —  this  I  spake  not  of : 
I  made  not  haste  sufficient. 


Evening 
79 

Thanks,  dear  Queen. 
Your  touch  is  like  my  Chloe's. 

This,  see  thou  — 

It  was  among  the  hills  of  Lebanon 
We  met  the  robbers  —  on  our  homeward  journey. 
I  had  a  wound  of  them.     And  even  now 
It  breaks  afresh  —  before  Belarion's  blade. 
Oh  ...  oh  ...  forgive  me,   Queen,  I  brought  not 

back  .  .  . 

Brought  not  ...  the  Healer.  ...    All  I  could  ...  I 
did. 

[He  falls,  dying,  into  the  arms  of  ABGAR,  who 
lays  him  gently  upon  the  dais  at  his  feet. 
[The  conflict  ends  suddenly. 

Voice  of  STILBE 

The  gate  !    The  gate !     Edessa  shall  be  free  ! 

[BELARION  bursts  through  the  gate  with  soldiers, 
in  the  midst  of  whom,  borne  aloft  on  the 
shoulders  of  slaves,  enter  STILBE  clothed 
in  white  and  gold,  and  bearing  garlands. 


The  City 

80 

STILBE 

Hear  Ares !    Spilth  of  Persian  vintages, 
And  splendid  altar-garlands,  laurel  and  rose ! 
Thighs  of  a  thousand  bulls,  great  Artemis ! 

[In  passing,  flings  a  garland  to  ABGAR. 
Thy  roses  I  return  thus,  Uchomo ! 

[She  is  borne  laughing  across  the  garden. 
Ha,  but  once  more  Edessa  shall  be  gay ! 
Yet  will  I  give  command  that  every  Spring 
One  night  my  women  shall  remember  thee, 
O  Queen,  with  love-songs  in  the  garden  here. 
[Exit  into  the  palace. 

[The  soldiers  of  BELARION  fill  the  scene.  Some 
with  torches  pass  into  the  palace,  as 
though  to  take  possession.  In  the  midst 
of  them,  enter  the  PHYSICIAN,  in  terror. 

PHYSICIAN 

Drive  me  not  thus,  I  say.     'Tis  ill  respect 
To  one  of  my  position.     (Catching  sight  of  ABGAR.) 
O  dear  King ! 


Evening 
81 

Speak  not  reproachfully  that  I  did  fail 

To  notify  Antigonus  and  John. 

I  met  an  ancient  actor  on  the  road 

Who  read  a  trilogy  of  vEschylus ; 

And  "Prove  thyself  the  Paion  of  this  dread," 

So  ran  the  line,  on  which  I,  pondering,  came.  .  .  . 

A  SOLDIER  (urging  him  on) 

Come,  thou  old  prattler,  show  us  to  the  treasure. 

[Exeunt,  into  the  palace. 

BELARION 

The   hour's    come   round.     Here,    brave   guards    of 

Edessa! 

Looks  he  too  frail  to  fight  and  live  like  us, 
He  there  of  the  bright  eye  and  crimson  cheek? 
Tis  fine  life  in  a  garden  with  a  woman ! 
His  creatures  in  the  city  can  pull  down 
And  build  up  as  he  bids  them,  spite  of  all 
The  rites  and  usages  of  gods  and  men ! 

Behold  the  man.    What  shall  we  do  with  him? 


The  City 

82 

SOLDIERS 
Kill  him! 

BELARION 

Ay,  kill  him !     But  not  instantly. 
Let  him,  and  her  who  styles  herself  our  Queen  — 
The    Greek    wench    there  — let    them    acquit    them- 
selves. 
What  word.  King? 

[In  advancing,  he  stumbles  over  the  dead  body 
of  ANANIAS. 

Ah,  the  old  dog's  licked  his  last ! 

ABGAR 

No  word  have  I  for  thee  to  pluck  at,  thou 

Who  murderest  beauty,  truth,  and  all  fair  things ! 

No  word  have  I;  but  o'er  that  faithful  man 

Who  gave  his  life  to  cure  his  King's  unrest, 

Have  I  a  more  than  word  for  thee.     That's  death ! 

[He  steps  forward  quickly,   unsheathing   his 
blade,  and  strikes  BELARION  a  mortal  blow. 

[BELARION  falls,  groaning. 


Evening 
83 

BELARION 

Up  there,  ye  cowards  !    See  my  vengeance  full  I 

[He  dies. 

[ABGAR,  defended  at  the  rear  by  the  stone  settle, 
protects  himself  and  CLEONIS  during  an 
attack  of  the  soldiers,  who  jail  back  as  if  in 
awe  of  his  commanding  front. 

[During  the  pause  AGAMEDE,  in  silence,  forces 
her  way  through  the  ranks,  and  joins 
CLEONIS  and  ABGAR  on  the  dais. 


CLEONIS  (pointing  to  the  body  of  ANANIAS) 

"And  those  most  dear  to  you  have  peace." 

Thy  blade ! 

[ABGAR  hesitates,  then  yields  her  his  unsheathed 
sword.  She  lightly  steps  downward  and 
lays  it  upon  the  body  of  ANANIAS,  then 
returns  to  ABGAR,  and  they  stand  defence- 
less, facing  the  soldiers. 


The  City 

84 

ABGAR  (half  turning  towards  the  city,  from  which  the 
red  flame  breaks  afresh  and  irradiates  his  helmet 
of  gold) 

Together,  love,  we  go  unto  the  city ! 


OCTAVES  IN  AN  OXFORD  GARDEN 


OCTAVES  IN  AN  OXFORD  GARDEN 

i 

THE  day  is  like  a  sabbath  in  a  swoon.  Wadham 

Slow  in  September's  blue  go  fair  cloud-things 
Poising  aslant  upon  their  charmed  wings, 

Stilled  to  the  last  faint  backward  smiles  of  June. 

Softly  I  tread,  and  with  repentant  shoon, 
Half  fearfully  in  sweet  imaginings, 
Where  broods,  like  courtyard  of  departed  kings, 

The  old  Quadrangle  paved  with  afternoon. 

H 

No  footfall  sounds  within  the  empty  hall; 

No  echoes  people  corridor  and  stair; 

The  sunlight  slumbers  on  the  silent  square, 
Forgetful  of  slow  shadows  by  the  wall. 
Yon  is  the  passage  where  low  lights  do  fall 

And  linger  longest  (I  have  watched  them  there) 

Beyond  which  you  will  find  a  spot  most  fair, 
A  comfortable  and  a  holy  spot  withal 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
88 

m 

There  dwells  the  very  soul  of  quietness, 
Seclusion's  spirit  deep  within  the  green, 
Secure  from  fame  as  some  unsung  demesne 

In  far  Ionian  hills.     There  waits  to  bless, 

With  her  all-healing,  mother-soft  caress, 
The  Sympathy  of  Trees,  that  friend  unseen, 
Soother  of  moods,  on  whom  all  hearts  do  lean 

Sooner  or  later,  and  their  cares  confess. 


IV 

As  one  whose  road  winds  upward  turns  his  face 
Unto  the  valleys  where  he  late  hath  stood, 
Leaning  upon  his  staff  in  peace  to  brood 

On  many  a  beauty  of  the  distant  place, 

So  I  in  this  cool  garden  pause  a  space, 
Reviewing  many  things  in  many  a  mood, 
Accumulating  friends  in  solitude 

From  the  assembly  of  my  thoughts  and  days. 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
89 


As  here  among  the  well- remembering  boughs 
Where  every  leaf  is  tongue  to  ancient  breath, 
Speech  of  the  yesteryears  forgathereth, 

And  all  the  winds  are  long-fulfilled  vows  — 

So  from  of  old  those  ringing  names  arouse 
A  whispering  in  the  foliate  shades  of  death 
Where  History  her  golden  rosary  saith, 

Glowing,  the  light  of  Memory  on  her  brows. 


VI 

What  hath  she  uttered  that  should  make  me  dread  — 
That  brown- robed  Abbess  with  her  beads  soft- told 
Who  hath  her  seat  upon  the  fragrant  mould 

And  sees  the  gliding  Centuries  perfected? 

Naught.     Only  good  things  saying,  she,  with  head 
Bowed  to  her  task  submissively,  doth  fold 
An  era  by  for  every  bead  of  gold, 

And  smileth  on  the  glory  of  the  Dead. 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
90 

vn 

Here  did  Wren  make  himself  a  student  home 

Or  e'er  he  made  a  name  that  England  loves. 

I  wonder,  as  he  watched  yon  chapel  doves 
If  he  did  have  some  foresight  of  that  dome 
On  Lud's  old  Hill  where  now  their  coveys  come, 

With  them  that  bear  his  name,  in  lofty  coves. 

I  wonder  if  this  straying  shadow  moves 
Adown  the  wall  as  then  he  saw  it  roam. 


vm 

Blake  hither  brought  his  book  —  to  con  the  sky, 
Commanding  squadrons  of  the  upper  seas 
That  streamed,  impatient  of  Time's  slow  degrees, 

Their  pennoned  fleets  of  phantasy  on  high. 

O  wing-shod  Time,  that  we  should  bid  thee  fly ! 
Five  hundred  years  good  Bishop  Wykeham's  trees 
Down  there  at  New  have  known  such  lads  as  these, 

And  they  are  patient  still  and  standing  by. 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
91 

rx 

ALL  things  seem  ordered  sweetly  in  the  Nature's 

calm,  Calmness 

Full  measure  of  the  even-marching  years. 

This  elm  I  love  hath  never  fought  with  fears 
And  sickening  heartbreak ;  but  the  steady  psalm 
Of  one  who  trusts  not  vainly  issues  from 

His  quiet  depth  —  such  psalm  as  lifts  and  cheers 

Each  tiny  stalk  or  tender  blade  that  rears 
A  nostril  to  the  breeze- bestowed  balm. 


Primrose,  and  Phlox,  and  Clytie  (as  I  call 
The  lady  Sunflower,  never  to  forget 
The  faithful  nymph  she  was  —  ah,  yes,  is  yet !), 

These  sway  unto  its  heartsome  rise-and-fall 

With  ivies  undulating  up  the  wall; 
And  thought,  to  inarticulate  rhythm  set, 
Joins  harmony,  while  far  the  World's  vain  fret 

And  discord  dreamwise  vanish  from  it  all. 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
92 

XI 

Soon  will  sweet  Primrose  be  a  faded  crone, 
Yet  seeks  she  now  nor  flattery  nor  fame; 
And  Phlox  upon  the  morrow  lays  no  claim 

When  her  shed  bloom  shall  be  around  her  blown. 

This  Beech,  'neath  whom  their  many  kindred  shone 
As  fair,  hath  ne'er  heard  any  wish  a  name, 
And  even  he  hath  reckoned  it  no  shame 

To  live  in  silence  and  to  pass  unknown. 

XII 

THIS  is  my  lost  inheritance.    I  look  Lost 

With  brotherliest  affections  yearning         Inheritance 

forth 
To  the  flower-bearing  sod.     Oh,  what  is  worth 

The  strange  estate  of  flesh  I  strangely  took  ? 

In  the  soft  soil  the  garden  breezes  shook 
From  the  wall  chink  but  now,  there's  measure  of  earth 
To  match  my  body's  dust  when  its  re-birth 

To  sod  restores  old  functions  I  forsook. 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
93 

xm 

STRANGE  that  a  sod  for  just  a  thrill  or         Vicissitude 
two 

Should  ever  be  seduced  into  the  round 

Of  change  wherein  its  present  state  is  found 
In  this  my  form !  forsake  its  quiet,  true 
And  fruitfullest  retirement  to  go  through 

The  heat,  the  strain,  the  languor,  and  the  wound ! 

Forget  soft  rain  to  hear  the  stormier  sound, 
Exchange  for  burning  tears  its  peaceful  dew ! 

xrv 

IT  was  the  lip  of  murmuring  Thames          Old  Song 
along  and  a  Ri™ 

When  new  lights  sought  the  wood  all  strangely  fair, 

Such  quiet  lights  as  saints  transfigured  wear 
In  minster  windows  crept  the  glades  among. 
And  far  as  from  some  hazy  hill,  yet  strong, 

Methought  an  upland  shepherd  piped  it  there, 

Rousing  a  silvern  echo  in  her  lair: 
11  Sweet  Thames  run  softly  till  I  end  my  song." 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
94 

xv 

My  Spenser  lay  the  dewy  grass  upon, 
His  pages  shone  before  me  as  I  read  — 
Like  the  gold  daisies  gleaming  round  his  bed 

His  lantern  verses  upward  to  me  shone. 

End  never  yet  his  song's  rich  note  hath  known ; 
"Sweet  Thames"  runs  softly  by  his  burthen  sped, 
And  shall,  while  hymns  are  sung  and  prayers  are  said, 

Low  chanting  his  glad  Prothalamion. 

XVI 

I  NEVER  thought  until  one  night  i'  the  The  Same 

dark  Sky 

When  one  I  love  was  on  the  labouring  seas, 

How  constantly  the  stars'  white  companies 
Stand  watch  o'er  all  —  yea,  when  horizons  stark 
Are  swept  of  every  other  sign  and  mark 

So  it  were  utmost  desert  but  for  these. 

(And  then,  I  think,  my  spirit  found  its  knees 
And  asked  them  to  guide  well  my  dear  one's  barque.) 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
95 

XVII 

IT  is  the  same  sky  over  sea  and  land :  Constancy 

The  same  pure  stars  attend  great  London 

town 
That  tremble  where  the  Channel  thunders  down ; 

'Tis  we  that  vary,  running  on  the  strand. 

Life  bounds  no  fresher  from  the  eternal  hand 
Here  in  the  Wadham  branches  than  out  yon 
Where  blurs  the  dusty  highway  wide  and  wan : 

Good  is  within  all,  having  all  things  planned. 

XVIII 

THERE  is  a  picture — you  have  seen       Ford  Madox 
•t  Q£t.  Brown's  "Christ 

washing  the 
The  Master  at  unwilling  Peter's        peei  Oj  peier  " 

feet 

Ennobling  evermore  and  making  sweet 
Each  humble  service  wrought  with  mind  aloft. 
Such  mystic  splendour  shines  serene  and  soft 

('Twas  dreamt  out  through  long  years  and  made  com- 
plete 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
96 

From  visions  ripe)  that,  turning  thence,  we  greet 
A  new  world,  where  dull  conscious  self  is  dofft. 

XIX 

HE  who  this  limned  is  gone.    They  treasure        The 
still  Absence 

The  wooden  wafer  once  he  loved  to  hold 

Which  (can  we  question?)  now  his  hand  is  mould 
Yearns  ever  for  his  touch  of  tender  skill. 
This  ochre,  longs  it  not  to  meet  his  will 

About  the  head  of  Jesus  aureoled? 

And  that  sad  patch  of  umber  some  slight  fold 
Of  Peter's  garment  would  so  gladly  fill ! 

xx 

Even  so  our  fancies'  colours,  keen  of  yore, 
When  one  we  love  lays  by  this  earth- constraint, 
Upon  our  palettes  do  wax  dull  and  faint, 

Fulfilling  not  commissions  first  they  bore. 

For  he  is  gone,  and  never  holy  lore 
Nor  shining  nimbus  of  transfigured  saint 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
97 

May  anywhere  the  fragment  ochre  paint; 
And  the  rich  umber  waits  for  evermore. 

XXI 

ONE  time  from  that  grey  close  I  did          St.  Paul's 
emerge 

Wherethrough  I  had  been  toiling,  and  to  me, 

Like  some  benignant  rock  above  the  sea, 
St.  Paul's  great  brow  above  the  mist  and  surge 
Loomed  kindly,  and  methought  did  kindly  urge 

All  men  up  to  it,  till  there  came  to  be 

A  hush  on  hearts,  a  deep  tranquillity 
Of  healing  virtue,  round  the  minster's  verge. 

XXII 

Thus  Friendship.    As  a  sacred  citadel 
Above  the  hurrying  crowd  of  men  it  towers; 
There  in  or  sun  or  frost,  or  shine  or  showers, 

Invites  to  worship  with  no  beating  bell. 

This  world's  a  city,  and  it  loves  full  well 
The  mid-street  sanctuary  that  is  ours 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
98 

Whither  to  steal  away  renewing  powers 
Whose  sources  only  at  that  Altar  dwell. 

XXIII 

SOME  dust  of  Eden  eddies  round  us  yet.  Dust  o] 

Some  clay  o'  the  Garden,  clinging  in  tLaen 

the  breast, 

Down  near  the  heart  yet  bides  unmanifest. 
Last  eve  in  gardens  strange  to  me  I  let 
The  path  lead  far;  and,  lo,  my  vision  met 

Old,  forfeit  hopes.     I,  as  on  homeward  quest, 

By  recognizing  trees  was  bidden  rest, 
And  pitying  leaves  looked  down  and  sighed,  "Forget." 

XXIV 

To  one  tired  heart  I  said :  If  it  be  true        Restoration 
That,  in  the  sad  much-winding  of  your 

ways, 

Your  thread  is  broken  out  of  other  days, 
And  you  know  not  what  joy  is  lost  to  you, 
I  pray  you,  turn  aside  awhile  and  through 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
99 

This  quiet  garden  think  on  some  old  place 
Dear  to  the  child  you  were,  and  that  loved  face 
That  once  in  many  a  labyrinth  was  your  clew. 

XXV 

FAIR  crystal  cups  are  dug  from  earth's       Roman  Glass- 
old  crust,  warepre- 

served  in  the 
Shattered  but  lovely;   for,  at  price       Ashmolean 

of  all 
Their  shameful  exile  from  the  banquet-hall, 

They  have  been  bargaining  beauties  from  the  dust. 

So,  dig  my  life  but  deep  enough,  you  must 
Find  broken  friendships  round  its  inner  wall  — 
Which  once  my  careless  hand  let  slip  and  fall  — 

Brave  with  faint  memories,  rich  in  rainbow-rust. 

XXVI 

TELL  them,  sweet  evening  breeze  poised      Life's 

here,  no  less  Usurpation 

I  love  their  memory  whom  thou  goest  to  greet 
Out  there  at  heaven's  gate,  but  that  I  meet 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 

100 

Less  oft  the  idle  thoughts  of  old  distress. 

Tell  them  the  thought  of  them  still  lives  to  bless, 
But  since  I  learned  how  much,  despite  defeat, 
My  life  demands  that  I  shall  make  complete, 

I  must  yield  up  my  cherished  loneliness. 

xxvn 

SOMETHING  of  sorrow  am  I  not  denied,  —          Traces 
Share  of  the  earth's  old,  universal  pain 
I  own,  —  though  but  as  hillsides  own  the  rain, 

Or  solid  sands  the  long  wave's  stroking  side. 

Still,  though  no  rains  upon  the  steep  may  bide, 
And  harmlessly  the  sea-floods  rise  and  wane, 
The  downward  torrent-traces  do  remain, 

And  sands  bear  record  of  the  sedulous  tide. 

xxvni 

BEFORE  an  inn  hearth's  tale-begetting  flame,      The  One 
Or  sooth,  or  fable,  yielded  of  the  store         Flower 
A  white  old  man  from  perilous  country  bore, 

I  heard  of  a  strange  tree  without  a  name 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
101 

Whose  shade  the  brinks  of  fuming  gulfs  did  claim 
And  the  precipitous  torrents  of  that  shore. 
Beauteous  and  straight  it  was,  and  uniflore 

With  purest  bud  that  e'er  to  blossom  came. 

XXIX 

As  those  great  petals  burst  asunder  there 
A  wondrous  fragrance  on  the  breeze  was  fanned, 
Solace  unique  of  that  unfriendly  land 

Wafted  remote  along  the  treasuring  air. 

But  then,  the  old  man  said  with  trembling  care, 
A  little  raising  his  blue,  withered  hand, 
"The  flower  droops  straightway  ere  it  doth  expand, 

And  never  another  bloom  that  tree  may  bear." 

XXX 

Oh,  sometimes,  in  the  years  since  then,  I  too 
Through  dangerous  and  deserted  lands  have  wended, 
And  many  a  stark  and  chasmy  steep  descended 

Which  crumbling  cataracts  shed  their  vapour  through. 

But  where  such  lone,  mysterious  blossom  grew 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 


102 


I  have  not  sought  to  learn,  by  one  more  splendid 
Along  the  dimmest  verges  close  attended  — 
The  all-enfolding,  deathless  love  of  you ! 

XXXI 

EARLY  at  eve  on  Onchan  Head,  because       Separation 

The  crimson  lustre  was  upon  the  bay, 

And  much  bright  melody  began  to  sway 
Upward  from  gay  pavilions,  and  there  was 
None  there  to  speak  with  in  the  music's  pause, 

I  sickened  of  the  glory  and  turned  away. 

Oh,  that  red  sun  had  sealed  a  perfect  day 
Had  I  but  heard  your  low,  sweet  laugh's  applause ! 

XXXII 

He  is  no  lover  of  the  sea  who  loses 

Sound  of  her  voices,  inland  wandering. 

Still  should  her  old  melodious  mystery  spring 
Around  him,  wend  he  wheresoe'er  he  chooses; 
And  so  within  me  rhythmic  life  refuses 


Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
103 

By  any  other  pulse  than  yours  to  swing, 
Far  from  your  friendship's  ocean  though  I  sing 
Where  the  hills  tire  and  the  rough  pathway  bruises. 

xxxm 

A  great  nelumbo  heavy  on  the  breast 

Of  heaven's  tranquil  lake  must  be  the  moon 
Above  this  garden  in  the  still  night's  noon 

Bending  the  gold  of  her  refulgent  crest. 

Thus  to  the  surface  of  these  days  of  rest 
Through  all  my  absent  idlesse,  late  and  soon, 
The  thought  of  you  doth  blossom  and  the  boon 

Of  the  dear  face  that  waits  me  down  the  West. 


SONNETS 


Sonnets 
107 

SONNETS 

« 

LIFE'S  TAVERN 

NIGHT-REFUGE,  set  aloft  this  travelled  hill, 

Tis  deemed  by  many  a  lodger  but  an  inn; 
Others  look  round  them  better  and  scarce  fill 

Their  first  cup  ere  its  mystery  doth  begin, 
And  they  are  led  by  some  divine  desire 

Where,  midmost  of  an  inner  room,  there  bends 
Clear  flame  on  golden  altar,  to  which  fire 

A  wide-eyed  vestal  changelessly  attends. 
And  most,  so  led,  have  joy  to  serve  that  light 

And  with  the  jealous  priestess  vigil  keep; 
But  woe  to  any  wearying  neophyte, 

And  woe  to  him  who  serves  with  eyes  of  sleep: 
To  such  is  she  more  bitter  than  to  those 
On  whom,  unlit,  her  doors  forever  close ! 


Sonnets 

1 08 


SULTAN'S  BREAD 

REMOTE  behind  the  Sultan's  palace  wall 
That  silent  rises  out  of  teeming  Fez, 
A  foreign  guest,  who  oft  broke  bread  there,  says 

One  day  at  food  a  morsel  was  let  fall; 

And  Abd-ul,  keen  of  eye,  did  gently  call 

Devout  slaves  to  restore  the  slighted  shred  — 
So  prized  in  his  religion  is  mere  bread 

To  the  great  lord  of  that  imperial  halL 

Up  to  the  table  of  this  life  we  sit, 
With  sultan  some,  and  some  with  tribesman  placed. 
The  fare  is  wheat  or  barley  on  our  plate, 

And  as  we  break  the  brittle  loaf  of  it 

'Tis  well  to  think  what  fragments  we  do  waste 
Which  our  companions  may  deem  consecrate. 


Sonnets 
109 


FAILURES 

THEY  bear  no  laurels  on  their  sunless  brows, 

Nor  aught  within  their  pale  hands  as  they  go; 

They  look  as  men  accustomed  to  the  slow 
And  level  onward  course  'neath  drooping  boughs. 
Who  may  these  be  no  trumpet  doth  arouse, 

These  of  the  dark  processionals  of  woe, 

Unpraised,  unblamed,  but  whom  sad  Acheron's  flow 
Monotonously  lulls  to  leaden  drowse? 
These  are  the  Failures.     Clutched  by  circumstance, 

They  were  —  say  not  too  weak !  —  too  ready  prey 
To  their  own  fear,  whose  fixed  gorgon  glance 

Made  them  as  stone  for  aught  of  great  essay ;  — 
Or  else  they  nodded  when  their  Master-Chance 

Wound  his  one  signal,  and  went  on  his  way. 


Sonnets 

1 10 


"AND   WOMEN   MUST  WEEP" 

I  HEARD  a  woman  sobbing  in  the  night 
Against  a  casement  high.     And,  as  she  cried, 
Our  heartless  world's  deliberate  homicide, 
Our  tragic  badinage,  our  mortal  slight 
Of  primal  claims,  and  the  remorseless  plight 
Of  the  poor  I  faced  there,  rigid,  open-eyed. 
Across  the  unechoing  street  in  silence  died 
Her  weary  moaning:   Whether,  in  her  sight 
Some  star  appeared  to  soothe  her  present  pain 
With  memories  sweet,  or  quiet  sleep's  strong  hand 
Blunted  her  keen- edged  woe,  or  other  fear 
Came  smothering  down  too  close  for  sob  or  tear, 
I  could  not  guess ;  —  some  Fate  may  understand 
That  spins  unseen  her  endless  umber  skein. 


Sonnets 
in 


GOLDEN  ROD 

DOUBTLESS  'twas  here  we  walked  but  yesterday, 
Seeing  not  any  beauty  save  the  green 
Of  meadows,  or,  where  slipt  the  brook  between, 

A  ribbon  of  blue  and  silver;  yet  the  way 

Is  strange:   in  golden  paths  I  seem  astray. 
Do  you  remember,  comrade,  to  have  seen 
Aught  forward  in  these  meadows  that  should  mean 

A  culmination  in  such  fair  display? 

We  noticed  not  the  humble  stalks  amid 
The  many  roadside  grasses;  but,  it  seems, 
They  were  preparing  this !    And,  when  their  dreams 

Were  ripe  for  doing,  they  could  no  more  be  hid 
Than  golden  thoughts  that  bloom  to  action  when 
Their  hearts  make  heroes  out  of  common  men. 


Sonnets 

112 

OCTOBER 

THE  maples  their  old  sumptuous  hues  resume 
Around  the  woodland  pool's  bright  glass,  and  strong 
The  year's  blue  incense  and  recession-song 

Sweep  over  me  their  music  and  perfume. 

Dear  Earth,  that  I  reproached  thee  in  my  gloom 
I  would  forget,  as  thou  forgott'st ;  I  long 
To  make  redress  for  such  a  filial  wrong 

And  praise  thee  now  for  all  thy  ruddy  bloom ! 

So  fond  a  mother  to  be  used  so  ill ! 
Yet  this  poor  heart  of  mine  hath  ever  been 
Prey  to  its  own  unwarranted  alarms  — 

Shall  fret,  and  beg  forgiveness  so,  until 
Thou  fold  my  thankless  body  warmly  in, 
And  draw  me  back  into  thy  loving  arms. 


Sonnets 
"3 

WITH  A   COPY   OF  THE  MONA  LISA 

'Tis  said  of  Mona  Lisa,  that  those  years 

She  gave  us  that  we  might  behold  her  face 

In  all  its  indefinable  rare  grace, 
As  on  the  immortal  canvas  it  appears,  — 
'Tis  said  those  were  from  trouble,  and  from  tears, 

Exempted  years;   and  that,  all  through  the  place 

Where  Leonardo  painted  her,  the  days 
Found  ever  scents  that  charm,  and  sound  that  cheers. 
Dear  one,  no  Leonardo  paints  thy  smile; 

Few  flowers,  and  little  music,  oft  there  be 

To  charm  away  the  world's  anxiety; 
Yet,  oh,  thy  patient  face  hath  all  the  while 

A  more  mysterious  loveliness  than  stirs 

The  heart  of  him  who  hath  seen  only  hers ! 


Sonnets 

114 

THE  REZZONICO   PALACE 

("A  Roberto  Browning,  morto  in  questo  palazzo  ") 

Low  stars  and  moonlight  beauty  disavow 

That  death  has  ever  known  her;    but  around 

Her  melancholy  portals  only  sound 
Of  waters  makes  her  music ;  and  the  brow 
Of  stately  wall  records  the  legend  how 

"Died  in  this  palace"  a  poet  Love  once  crowned. 

Here  the  cold  Angel  that  strong  harp  unbound : 
How  chill  and  silent  seem  her  chambers  now ! 
O  World,  if  ever  moon  should  wander  here 

Where  builds  my  heart  its  palace  for  your  song, 

And  find  such  tablet  in  the  outer  wall, 
The  poet  dead,  the  chambers  still  and  drear, 

Let  not  its  hollow  beauty  win  the  throng 

To  reverence,  but  let  it  perish  all ! 


Sonnets 
"5 

"EX   LIBRIS" 

IN  an  old  book  at  even  as  I  read 

Fast  fading  words  adown  my  shadowy  page, 

I  crossed  a  tale  of  how,  in  other  age, 
At  Arqua,  with  his  books  around  him,  sped 
The  word  to  Petrarch;   and  with  noble  head 

Bowed  gently  o'er  his  volume  that  sweet  sage 

To  Silence  paid  his  willing  seigniorage. 
And  they  who  found  him  whispered,  "He  is  dead!" 
Thus  timely  from  old  comradeships  would  I 

To  Silence  also  rise.     Let  there  be  night, 
Stillness,  and  only  these  staid  watchers  by, 

And  no  light  shine  save  my  low  study  light  — 
Lest  of  his  kind  intent  some  human  cry 

Interpret  not  the  Messenger  aright. 


Sonnets 

1x6 


MOTHERS   AND    SISTERS 

MOTHERS  and  sisters,  whom  no  sacrifice 

Dismays,  nor  whom  your  long,  laborious  hours 
Do  anywise  appall,  ye  are  the  powers 

By  whom  the  swift  are  girded  for  the  prize 

They  reach  in  the  light  of  your  believing  eyes. 
Ye  are  the  hidden  oil  the  shrine  devours  — 
Soil  of  the  garden  whence  the  great  rose  flowers  — 

The  silent  force  that  bids  a  star  arise. 

Ye  ask  of  men  nor  honour,  nor  regret, 
Nor  memory,  save  one's  whose  love  is  all. 

Renouncement  ?    Living  daily  the  divine ! 

Effacement?     Still  the  world  your  names  shall  call; 

Monica  was  the  mother  of  Augustine; 

Pascal  had  Jacqueline  —  Renan,  Henriette ! 


Sonnets 
117 

AFTER    READING    "THE    GOLDEN    TREAS- 
URY" IN  GREEN  PARK 

OFF  Piccadilly  with  its  pavement  cries, 

Its  maddening  monotone  of  wheel  and  hoof, 
Here  in  Green  Park  primeval  summer  lies, 

How  near,  how  yearning,  yet  how  far  aloof ! 
O  city,  symbol  of  a  world  that  still 

Heedless  of  beauty  under  heaven  rolls ; 
And  thou,  blithe  meadow  all  with  larks  a-thrill 

Like  poetry,  that  pasture  of  great  souls  — 
Ye  twain  so  sundered  shall  forever  dwell, 

A  tumult  and  a  blessing  side  by  side: 
Here,  as  to  toil-worn  Argo  once  befell 

A  singing  island  on  a  thundering  tide, 
Where  men  might  stretch  them  out  in  glad  release, 
We  too,  much- wandering,  hail  this  hour  of  peace ! 


Sonnets 

118 


TO   GEORGE   CRABBE 

DUSK  falls,  and  through  the  deepening  silence  where 

Red  afterglows  yon  ashen  roof  do  paint 
Whose  dormer  children's  tapers  gild  so  fair, 

Far  vesper  chimes  disperse  their  music  faint. 
Beneath  an  ancient  arch  the  river  turns 

Full  of  his  inexpressive  melody: 
With  tenderest  longing  my  whole  being  yearns 

To  set  his  old,  imprisoned  story  free ! 
Unto  this  gloaming  world,  thou,  Spirit  sweet, 

With  me  art  come ;  thou  art  of  village  things 
A  low- voiced,  love- enfolding  paraclete 

Who  soothest  all  their  sleepy  murmurings, 
And  lurest  from  river,  chime,  and  thatchen  stead 
Tales  of  the  inarticulate,  and  the  dead. 


Sonnets 
119 

THOUGHT  OF  STEVENSON 

HIGH  and  alone  I  stood  on  Calton  Hill 
Above  the  scene  that  was  so  dear  to  him 
Whose  exile  dreams  of  it  made  exile  dim. 

October  wooed  the  folded  valleys  till 

In  mist  they  blurred,  even  as  our  eyes  upfill 
Under  a  too  sweet  memory;    spires  did  swim, 
And  gables  rust-red,  on  the  grey  sea's  brim  — 

But  on  these  heights  the  air  was  soft  and  still. 

Yet  not  all  still :   an  alien  breeze  will  turn 
Here  as  from  bournes  in  aromatic  seas, 

As  round  old  shrines  a  new-freed  soul  might  yearn 
With  incense  of  rich  earthly  reveries. 

Vanish  the  isles :  Mist,  exile,  searching  pain, 

But  the  brave  soul  is  free,  is  home  again ! 


Sonnets 

120 


BONINGTON  (1801-1828) 

WHO  mourns  his  life  was  brief?    He  who  forgets 

Work  is  the  master's  measure,  and  not  years ! 
There  on  his  sands  that  trailed  their  Norman  nets, 

Far  from  the  fluctuant  city's  joys  and  fears, 
Or  in  the  long  Louvre's  golden-glorious  streets, 

Prodigious  in  accomplishment  he  dwelled: 
A  Chatterton  of  fancies,  colour's  Keats, 

Swift  visitant,  by  other  worlds  compelled ! 
Much  beauty  had  this  boy  to  leave  on  earth; 

Grieve  not,  for  he  did  leave  it,  hurrying  hence 
To  some  more  radiant  art,  some  starred  rebirth 

Where  Truth  most  needed  his  soul's  eloquence, 
And  where  he  toils  those  stately  minds  among 
Who  dare  glance  backward  smiling,  and  with  song. 


Sonnets 

121 

BENJAMIN-CONSTANT'S  PORTRAIT   OF 
QUEEN  VICTORIA 

APART,  with  centuries  which  she  doth  illume, 
The  sunset  on  her  face,  around  her  throne 
Tapestried  legends  and  heraldic  stone, 

Silent  she  sits  within  that  gorgeous  gloom. 

Eyes  narrowed  in  far  retrospect  assume 
Sorrows  of  empire.     Not  her  dream  alone 
Occident  glories,  Orients  homage-prone, 

But  more  and  more  of  Lucknow  and  Khartum. 

Along  the  past  with  heavy- lidded  eyes 

She  looks  as  one  who  knows  the  vision  well, 
A  quiet  woman  whom  stately  powers  compel 

To  splendour,  and  to  silent  sacrifice  — 
For  in  the  clare-obscure  of  her  deep  years 
What  counter  of  gains  hath  likewise  told  her  tears  ? 


Sonnets 

122 

ORPAH 

MY  heart  is  with  thee,  Orpah !    Meekly  thou 
Out  of  the  tender  chronicle  dost  wend 
Back,  lonely,  unto  Moab.     Wordless  friend, 

By  those  great  tears,  and  that  averted  brow, 

(If  anywhere  thy  loving  spirit  now 
My  backward-turning  heart's  long  cry  attend !) 
I  swear  to  thee  soul-homage  to  the  end, 

And  speed  thee  my  allegiance  in  one  vow: 

"Silently  I  from  out  Love's  chronicle 
Will  wend  alone:   of  me  is  little  need. 
Silently  will  I  go,  and  leave  her  this 

Sweet  other  friend,  whose  passion  words  can  tell." 
—  O  Orpah,  know  that  thou  art  blest  indeed, 
For  thou  couldst  weep  —  thou  hadst  Naomi's  kiss  ! 


Sonnets 
123 

A  MOTIVE   OUT   OF  LOHENGRIN 

UNEARTHLY  beauty  of  soft  light  persuadeth 
This  castle  which  to  shadows  did  belong; 
And  through  its  farthest  vaults  sweet  mellow  song 

The  silence  of  my  wintry  halls  upbraideth; 

Gently  as  saffron  dawn  that  smiling  fadeth 
The  sable,  yielding  hours,  these  search  along; 
And  with  them,  souls  of  roses  dead  —  faint  throng 

Of  odours  of  old  years  that  all-pervadeth. 

Lady,  this  thing  I  speak  not  —  do  not  fear  it. 
'Twere  more  than  friendship,  yet  no  better  name 
Dares  my  most  grateful  heart's  allegiance  claim 

Lest  this,  as  I  do  think,  be  brother- spirit 

To  him,  swan-brought  to  Brabant's  castled  shore, 
Who,  named  aloud,  was  lost  for  evermore. 


Sonnets 

124 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  BEAUTY 


FOR  whom  is  Beauty?    Where  no  eyes  attend 
As  richly  goes  the  day;  and  every  dawn 
Reddens  along  green  rivers  whereupon 

None  ever  gaze.    Think,  could  earth  see  an  end 

Of  all  the  twilight  lovers  whose  thoughts  blend 
With  scents  of  garden  blooms  they  call  their  own, 
Would  not  as  close  the  yellowest  rose  outblown 

Be,  after  them,  the  unmurmurous  evening's  friend? 

Then  wherefore  Beauty,  if  in  mortal  eye 
That  loves  them  stars  no  challenge  read  to  shine, 

And  all  the  wonder  of  a  sunset  sky 
Wax  not  more  wondrous  for  such  smile  as  thine? 

Why,  pray,  if  not  for  Love  which  cannot  die  — 
This  old  earth-loving  Love  of  thine  and  mine  1 


Sonnets 
125 


When  we  two  from  our  Summer  hills  have  passed, 
And  Autumn  burns  beneath  thy  praise  no  more, 
Nor  any  Winter's  raving  at  our  door 

Shuts  each  within  the  other's  heart  more  fast ; 

Neither  Spring's  roses  learn  what  lips  thou  hast  — 
Oh,  then  this  thing  called  Beauty  to  its  core 
Our  wedded  souls  shall  penetrate  before 

One  thought  unto  Eternity  is  cast ! 

Then  shall  we  know  the  violet's  pretext;  learn 
More  definite  a  promise  of  the  rose, 

And  its  fulfilment;   when  the  maples  turn, 
Be  part  of  all  the  glory  among  those; 

Or  help  the  May  with  her  uncoiling  fern, 
And  breathe  the  trillium  open  where  it  grows  I 


Sonnets 

126 


CONSUMMATION 

As  the  clear  fountain  sparkles  on  the  hill 

In  some  flowered  basin,  at  a  cool,  sweet  height, 
Yet  comes  from  we  guess  not  what  galleried  night, 

Devious,  untraced,  and  altogether  ill,  — 

So  doth  my  love  from  other  days  distil, 
Through  channels  occult  groping  up  to  light, 
Deeming  all  labours  past  as  thrice  requite 

If  once  thou  stoop  thy  hollowed  hand  to  fill. 

Clear  eyes  that  bend  upon  my  love  thou  hast, 
And  I  would  have  them  cloudless  of  dismay: 

I  thank  the  chastenings  of  that  cryptic  past 

Where  those  soiled  waters  crept  their  stains  away,  — 

Those  slandered  days,  whose  riddle,  now,  at  last, 
Grows  plain  before  this  fair  and  final  day. 


Sonnets 
127 

WASHINGTON'S   BIRTHDAY 

(The  first  celebration  in  the  new  century) 

EARTH,  that  hast  countless  aeons  of  swift  days 

Spun  from  thy  poles  —  and  like  a  mote  been  swirled 
Fleet  years  about  thy  Master  Orb  —  and  hurled 

With  all  thy  starry  fellows  into  space, 

Silent  and  irresistible  on  the  face 

Of  heavens,  and  of  heavens'  heavens  unfurled  — 
And  yet  remainest  our  remembering  world, 

Our  kindly  home,  and  our  familiar  place,  — 

Thou  dost  not  fail,  sweet,  immemorial  Earth, 
To  number  o'er  thy  sons  that  were  thy  kings; 
Chants  royal  raisest  thou  among  the  rings 

Celestial  of  old  stars  for  their  great  worth 

Whose  birth  was  not  as  is  our  common  birth, 
But  was  foreplanned  with  elemental  things. 


Sonnets 

128 


ARLINGTON 

No  tap  of  drum,  nor  sound  of  any  horn, 
Shall  call  them  now  from  this  unbattled  height; 
No  more  the  picket  dreads  the  traitor  night, 

Nor  would  the  marcher  tired  delay  the  morn. 

Fell  some  upon  the  field  with  victory  torn 

From  weakening  grasp;  and  some  before  the  fight, 
Doomed  by  slow  fevers  or  the  stray  shot's  spite ; 

And  some  old  wounds  through  quiet  years  have  worn. 

And  all  are  folded  now  so  peacefully 
Within  her  breast  whose  glory  was  their  dream  — 
From  her  own  bloody  fields,  from  isles  extreme, 

From  the  long  tumult  of  the  land  and  sea  — 
Where  lies  the  steel  Potomac's  jewelled  stream 
Like  the  surrendered  sword  of  Memory. 


Sonnets 
129 

THE   SEQUOIA,    "WILLIAM    McKINLEY" 

(Christened  October  21,  1901,  Mariposa  County,  Cali- 
fornia) 

HE  who  in  dying  blessed  the  peaceful  trees 
That  lulled  the  slow  grief  of  the  lapsing  year 
Towards  tranquil  death,  is  best  remembered  here. 

He  leaves  a  name  that  shall  make  holier  these 

Huge  temple  pillars  where  the  organing  breeze, 
Always  at  requiem,  fills  the  atmosphere, 
And  does  to  their  eternal  roof  uprear 

Perpetual  music  of  great  memories. 

Men  raised  rich  temples  in  the  days  antique 
To  serve  memorial  unto  virtues  wan 
Beside  his.     Him  no  rites  shall  celebrate 

Gold-bought,  ephemeral  as  their  altar-reek  — 
But,  while  time  is,  he  here  in  solemn  state 
Shall  hold  fit  place  in  Nature's  pantheon. 


Sonnets 

130 

WHEAT  ELEVATORS 

(Minnesota) 

CASTLES,  or  Titans'  houses,  or  huge  fanes 
Of  ancient  gods  that  yet  compel  men's  fear  — 
What  powers,  what  pomps,  do  these  betoken  here 

Looming  aloft  upon  the  plough-seamed  plains? 

Souls  of  ripe  seasons  and  spirits  of  sweet  rains 
Flock  hither;   and  the  sinewy,  yellow  year 
Heaps  their  high  chambers  with  Pactolian  gear 

More  precious  than  those  golden  Lydian  grains. 

Nor  fortresses,  nor  demi-gods'  abodes, 
These  are  upraised  to  well- feared  deities 
Whose  power  is  iron,  and  whose  splendid  sway 

Is  undisputed  now  as  when  great  Rhodes, 
And  Tyre,  and  Carthage,  flourished  serving  these, 
Or  Joseph  stored  Egyptian  corn  away. 


Sonnets 


THE  COAL  BREAKER 

(Pennsylvania) 

THIS  is  the  house  where,  up  from  ages  gone, 
Huge  forests,  root  and  leaf  and  bough  and  bole, 
With  every  bend  of  breeze  and  tempest-roll 

Preserved  in  crystal  from  earth's  distant  dawn, 

Again  to  light  laboriously  are  drawn. 
No  continent's  tumultuous  throes  control 
Their  phalanx  more:  they  are  black  seams  of  coal 

And  are  upheaved  by  human  will  and  brawn. 

But  see,  here  in  this  ogre's  castle  weaves 
A  magic  power  to  make  those  forests  glad 
And  charm  away  their  thousand  ages'  sleep, 

For  more  than  all  the  beauty  once  they  had 
Returns,  with  song  of  bird  and  rush  of  leaves, 
In  the  bright  waving  hearth-  fire  calm  and  deep. 


Sonnets 

132 

THE  STATUE   OF  LIBERTY 

(New  York  Harbour,  A.  D.  2900) 

HERE  once,  the  records  show,  a  land  whose  pride 
Abode  in  Freedom's  watchword !    And  once  here 
The  port  of  traffic  for  a  hemisphere, 

With  great  gold-piling  cities  at  her  side ! 

Tradition  says,  superbly  once  did  bide 

Their  sculptured  goddess  on  an  island  near, 
With  hospitable  smile  and  torch  kept  clear 

For  all  wild  hordes  that  sought  her  o'er  the  tide. 

'Twas  centuries  ago.     But  this  is  true: 
Late  the  fond  tyrant  who  misrules  our  land, 
Bidding  his  serfs  dig  deep  in  marshes  old, 

Trembled,  not  knowing  wherefore,  as  they  drew 
From  out  this  swampy  bed  of  ancient  mould 
A  shattered  torch  held  in  a  mighty  hand. 


Note 
'33 


NOTE 

Eusebius  Pamphili,  the  fourth-century  church  historian,  cites 
the  public  archives  of  the  City  of  Edessa  as  authority  for  the 
story  of  Abgar's  appeal  to  Jesus.  He  relates  that  Ananias  was 
sent  to  Jerusalem  with  the  following  letter :  — 

"  Abgarus,  King  of  Edessa,  to  Jesus  the  good  saviour,  who 
appears  at  Jerusalem,  greeting. 

"I  have  been  informed  concerning  you  and  your  cures, 
which  are  performed  without  the  use  of  medicines  and  herbs. 
For  it  is  reported  that  you  cause  the  blind  to  see,  the  lame 
to  walk,  do  both  cleanse  lepers,  and  cast  out  unclean  spirits 
and  devils,  and  restore  them  to  health,  who  have  been  long 
diseased,  and  raisest  up  the  dead ;  all  which  when  I  heard,  I 
was  persuaded  of  one  of  these  two,  namely,  either  that  you 
are  God  himself  descended  from  heaven,  who  do  these 
things,  or  the  son  of  God. 

"  On  this  account  therefore  I  have  wrote  to  you,  earnestly 
to  desire  you  would  take  the  trouble  of  a  journey  hither,  and 
cure  a  certain  disease  which  I  am  under.  For  I  hear  the 
Jews  ridicule  you,  and  intend  you  mischief.  My  city  is 
indeed  small,  but  neat,  and  large  enough  for  us  both." 


Note 


A  paraphrase  of  the  reply  of  Jesus  occurs  in  the  drama  in  this 
volume.  The  promise  of  cure  at  the  end  of  this  reply  is  more 
definite  as  recorded  by  Eusebius  ;  but  since  the  subsequent  fate 
of  the  king  is  obscure,  no  detailed  tradition  is  violated  in  the 
present  working  out  of  the  story. 

There  is  also  a  tradition  that  the  napkin  of  Veronica  (or  Bere- 
nice) came  into  the  possession  of  Abgar,  it  having  thence  gone 
through  many  hands  to  its  present  resting-place  at  Rome.  In 
the  drama  advantage  has  been  taken  of  this  legend  to  work  out 
the  fulfilment  of  the  healer's  promise.  To  complete  the  harmony 
of  the  story,  it  only  needs  to  assume  the  identity  of  Ananias  and 
his  retinue  with  the  "  Greeks  "  alluded  to  in  the  twelfth  chapter 
of  John's  Gospel:  — 

"And  there  were  certain  Greeks  among  them  that  came 
up  to  worship  at  the  feast.  The  same  came  therefore  to 
Philip,  which  was  of  Bethsaida  of  Galilee,  and  desired  him 
saying,  '  Sir,  we  would  see  Jesus.' 

"Philip  cometh  and  telleth  Andrew,  and  again  Andrew 
and  Philip  tell  Jesus.  And  Jesus  answered  them,  saying  :  — 
"  '  The  hour  is  come  that  the  son  of  man  should  be  glori- 
fied. Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto  you,  except  a  corn  of  wheat 
fall  into  the  ground  and  die,  it  abideth  alone  ;  but  if  it  die  it 
bringeth  forth  much  fruit.  He  that  loveth  his  life  shall  lose 
it  ;  and  he  that  hateth  his  life  in  this  world  shall  keep  it  unto 
life  eternal.'" 


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